


Precipice of Change

by ArcherAnders



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Avvar, Blood Magic, Body Horror, Drama, Friends to Lovers, Gay, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Relationships, Inquisitor Hawke, Long Lost/Secret Relatives, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Purple Hawke, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Some Humor, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-02-26 14:39:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 48
Words: 90,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13237839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArcherAnders/pseuds/ArcherAnders
Summary: Archer Hawke spends his life being at the wrong place at the wrong time. While looking for Anders years after the Battle of Kirkwall, Hawke finds himself with a mark on his hand and the title of Inquisitor. This is the story of Inquisition through Hawke's eyes from start through Trespasser and beyond.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AnonymousCatastrophe405](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonymousCatastrophe405/gifts), [giantsequoia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/giantsequoia/gifts).



> This story is about a sarcastic warrior Hawke who is a mage-sympathizer. This story will also include two Hawke's created by my friends anonymouscatastrophe405 and giantsequoia - Fletcher and Michael AKA Miguel. Fletcher becomes a love interest in the story. I'm going to post weekly or twice weekly, we'll see: D
> 
> Any feed back is appreciated, other than feed back about how genius it is to post a DAI story 2+ years after the release date go me XD
> 
> You can find me here and on tumblr at archer-and-anders.tumblr.com
> 
> Also typical stuff - 90% of the characters and so much of the story obviously belongs to Bioware. Some of the dialogue does too. I don't own it, don't want to own it. This is just for fun because I love this stupid universe so damn much. Thanks in advance for not suing me!

There’s a crack of brilliant green light flashing across the sky. Blue eyes flutter open. The sky is gone, and the only thing above is a dark ceiling crafted from weathered stone. Body shivering, a prisoner sits up, pulling his back off the damp floor of his cell. Every inch of him feels like ice save his left hand. He looks over at it and gasps. The same shade of green he saw in the sky appears to come from the palm of his hand. He holds it out to peer at it, unsure if it is real or some figment of the concussion he surely has with a headache as bad as the one he could feel brewing between his eyes. Cautiously, he holds his hand out, and makes to touch it with the index finger of his right. Before contact can be made, he hears a squeaky metal door open quickly, allowing two figures into his dimly lit cell.

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now that the conclave is destroyed? Everyone who attended was dead except for you.”

The man’s eyes squint, barely able to make out who was speaking the words. But the thick, northern accent, that’s familiar. It’s a voice that had worried him, months ago.

Cassandra Pentaghast stares daggers right through him. “Explain this!” she near shouts at him.

This woman, a Seeker, had spent several days in his own home interrogating one of his closest friends and confidants, Varric Tethras, while he hid in the shadows. She had wanted him, the Champion of Kirkwall, to come to the very conclave that she spoke of to try to find some peace between the mages and the Templars. When she came to his home, she found it as he had left it – abandoned yet open as a hub for any of his former companions who needed it. Varric, one of his few friends to remain in Kirkwall, had stopped by when he heard whispers of his return. But as soon as the dwarf made it within a few meters of the Hawke Estate, the dark-haired and no-nonsense Seeker essentially dragged him inside and held him hostage while she tried to extract any information she could about the notorious Archer Hawke.

Hawke remembered hearing the commotion at the door, readying his long sword to ward off any intruders. But when he saw that Cassandra simply wanted information from the dwarf and not to harm him, Archer lay low and listened to his friend fabricate a somewhat alternative version of his time in Kirkwall with Hawke, doing his best to try to throw her off of his path. Archer had heard stirrings of an upcoming meeting between Chantry officials and various scholars and nobles in Thedas in some attempt to settle the issues between the mages and the Templars, but he had no intention of going there. For the past three years, Archer Hawke had done near everything he could to strip him of his past self, mostly out of necessity and not by choice. But he wondered if he could go as someone else.

Archer’s thoughts jump back to the present as Cassandra barks at him again. “Do not make me repeat myself again. Answer me! And who are you even?”

He looks at his hand and shakes his head. For the first time he feels it ache right at the center of his palm. “I don’t…I don’t know what happened,” he admits. Archer is no medical professional, but he wonders if he is in shock. _Does she not know who I am?_ Cassandra and Archer have never met in person, but he is sure that she’d interrogated enough people to recognize him when she saw him even despite his valiant attempts to change his appearance.

“I’m-“ As he starts, the other figure who had come in with Cassandra makes herself visible. His eyes widened as he recognizes her. Lady Nightingale, better known to most as Leliana the bard, peers down at him, and she carefully shakes her head back and forth out of Cassandra’s view, asking him to cautiously calculate his answer. Archer thinks quickly about who he had sat next to at the conclave. “I’m Archer Trevelyan.”

Leliana and Cassandra both share a questioning look between each other before looking back at him. Archer had panicked. In all these years of trying to be someone else, he hadn’t had to actually craft another identity for himself. He laid low, following a trial he wasn’t supposed to follow. Other than changing the style of his hair and having the tattoo which partially circled his right eye removed – _painfully removed_ – he hadn’t had to do much.

“I knew the Trevelyans were coming from Ostwick, but I do not recall an ‘Archer’. I thought Bann Trevelyan’s youngest was named Lex or Alex-“ Cassandra is cut off before she can continue, possibly to make the connection to this man’s less than average name he shares with a certain Champion.

“The Bann is my uncle,” Archer lies. He recalls sitting next to the Bann’s son, Lex, during the conclave. They exchanged some painfully dull small talk before the procession began. From what little he can remember, the Trevelyans hailed from Ostwick, as Cassandra made mention, a port town in the Free Marches east of Kirkwall on the Waking Sea. The family appeared to be quite devout to the Chantry, and Lex had been promised to the Templar Order despite his own wishes. In this recollection, Archer realizes what a mistake it is to pretend to be a part of a family who seems to side with a group he hates so much. _Well, it’s not like I wasn’t always a disappointment to my original family; why not be the black sheep of the Trevelyans as well?_ “I came with my cousin to share my own voice. I don’t always see eye-to eye with my family, and we differ on our views of mage rights. I’m the lone member of my family who does not agree with the Chantry’s historic approach.”

Cassandra narrows her brows as he speaks. “You are against the Chantry? Against our beloved Divine? You – you broke the sky. Killed her!”

Archer rises to his feet, unsure of what she speaks of, but always ready to defend himself. “I didn’t kill anyone! I was just there…at the conclave, and then-“ It all comes rushing back to him. He sees himself, trying to escape horrible monsters chasing him up – _up what?_ The side of a cliff…mountain? He sees a brilliant white figure. He knows it’s speaking, but he can’t make out what. Was it him? Was it the one he’s been trying to find for three years?

“Cassandra, we have no evidence that he brought any harm to Justinia,” Leliana says, her voice calm and melodic. “Tell us what happened, Ser Trevelyan.”

He shakes his head. “I heard a fight, and went to see what was going on. The Divine was arguing with someone, and some metal object – a ball – rolled to me. I picked it up, and then it was dark and green…everything green. I was trying to escape, and then a figure saved me. Then I woke up.”

Cassandra grabs Archer by the arm and pulls him out of the cell through a corridor that leads them from the make-shift prison to the outside. Cold air stings his face, and he sees snow below him. He feels the smallest smile form on the edges of his lips. Ferelden was his home from childhood, and he hasn’t been back here until a few weeks ago when he arrived to make way to the conclave. It’s colder here than the rest of Thedas, and he always missed the icy chill of winter’s breath. He doesn’t have many happy childhood memories, but playing in the snow with his siblings is one of the few things he has been able to hold onto.

“Look up,” the Seeker demands, breaking his attention from the white powder at his feet.

He does as he’s told, and his jaw drops. There’s a hole in the sky, so large it must be several kilometers in length. Bright green light, just like that on his hand, surrounds the hole, and a beam of equal appearance juts down with from it, seemingly through the horizon. The sky around it blends from green to a dark navy blue, and, if it didn’t invoke such unfamiliar terror, it may just be considered beautiful.

“Andraste’s tits…what is tha-“ he’s cut off by groans of pain escaping his lips. He falls to his knees as the mark on his hand starts to burn. Archer feels tears well up in his eyes, and he’s unsure if it’s entirely from the pain. How is it that he always ends up in such absurd situations? Why can’t he just have something normal happen to him for once? His mind rushes back to that unknown white figure reaching out for him. The Divine is dead, and there’s only one person he knows who could do such a thing while managing to save him. _Anders…can’t I just love someone normal?_

Leliana helps Archer to his feet as the pain from the mark on his hand starts to subside. “Cassandra, escort him to the Temple. I need to scout back to Haven.” She gives Archer a small, weary smile before she leaves them.

Archer looks to Cassandra and feels his stomach sink. It is no secret that he gave Anders his full support after the Kirkwall Chantry was destroyed. They left the city together, and no one doubted that their plan was to help the mages to continue to rebel against Circles around Thedas until all mages were free. Cassandra may have wanted him to be a voice at the conclave, but it would she really be able to believe that he or his apostate lover – _former apostate lover –_ came there to be peaceful? With the Divine dead and with himself as the primary suspect, Archer knows that his survival is based on Cassandra never knowing who he truly is. He desperately hopes that Anders got out alive.

“Come with me.” Cassandra looks him over. “I need you, but I don’t trust you.” She starts to walk way from Archer and towards the green beam of light in the distance.

“You’re not the first woman to say that to m-“

Archer is cut off by a bash to his chest with a round wooden shield. Cassandra presses into him, sneering up at him. “You had best tread lightly, Trevelyan. The time for jokes has long past.” She pulls herself back but continues to stare at him while he coughs, attempting to recover from the blow. “Follow me, silently,” she says. “And grab a sword. The road ahead is overrun with demons.”

 _Demons?_ He thinks to himself, having not regained quite enough confidence to dare ask out loud. He looks over to a rack of swords near the entrance to the prison, and he reaches for a steel greatsword. It isn’t a surprise to him that the one he carried with him to the conclave is nowhere to be seen, but he aims to gain enough of Cassandra’s trust to ask to have it back again.

Archer jogs several paces forward in an attempt to catch up with the seeker, but she immediately rushes forward with a loud cry. In the distance, he sees a swarm of rage demons edging towards her, the snow melting under their fiery forms. He stares up at the sky again and then back down at the demons. It’s not just a rip in the sky; it’s a rip into the Veil. He leaps forward, drawing his sword up with both of his hands. As he makes it towards Cassandra, he tears through one of the demons with a single powerful blow. The seeker looks over at him as she pulls her sword out of the remains of one of the beasts. Both warriors share a look of determination and move on to eliminate the rest of the demons.

After fighting their way over snowy hills and pathways for what seemed like ages, they make it to a smaller break in the sky, one that Archer had not seen even at a distance. His left hand grows warm, but this time it does not hurt. It feels like a tingle, almost as if all the circulation has left from it. Suddenly, he feels slender fingers wrap around his wrist, and his hand is raised up towards the small break in the sky. A stream of green light shoots out from the palm of his hand, and Archer watches, wide-eyed as the light connects to the break in the sky. The temperature of his hand rises and rises, and he can feel an intense pressure pushing back against him. A hum coming from the sky crescendos until there’s a crack so loud that it causes Archer to jump on the balls of his feet, and then the break disappears along with the light from his hand. Only then does he look at the man holding his wrist.

“Apologies,” the bald elf says calmly as he lets go of Archer. “I thought that anchor on your hand may be what was needed to close the rift. I am Solas, and this is,” He gestures towards his left, and Archer’s eyes follow them down to a dwarf. If he had anything in his stomach, Archer knows he would throw up right then and there.

“Varric Tethras,” the dwarf continues. “Rogue, storyteller, and occasionally unwelcome tag-along.” Their eyes are locked on each other, and both, possibly for the first time in either of their lives, are at a loss for words.

Cassandra walks closer to them. “This is Archer Trevelyan, the only survivor of the conclave. I need to get him back to Haven so we can figure out what happened and how to fix the sky. Solas,” she says, turning towards the elf. “I need you to accompany me. And Varric,” she turns to the dwarf but fails to look directly at him. “I no longer need you here.”

Varric scoffs. “Seeker, I didn’t want to be here in the first place, but, now that things have gotten interesting, I think I have to stay. Might make for a good book, even.”

“Varric, really, I don’t have time fo-“

The dwarf cuts Cassandra off. “I’m staying. Besides, with all these demons pouring out from the sky, I think you could use a little extra help.” He pulls a wooden crossbow from off of his back and pats it. The seeker rolls her eyes and starts to head uphill, knowing full well that the dwarf is going nowhere.

Solas follows Cassandra, and Archer turns to look at Varric. “It’s good to see Bian- a crossbow…a great crossbow.”

Varric shakes his head and starts to walk the path behind the elf. “I can’t wait to hear how in the Void all this went down.”


	2. Chapter 2

Archer follows Cassandra, Solas, and Varric as they make their way towards the Temple of Sacred Ashes where the conclave was held. The path they take is treacherous, long, and Archer finds himself growing tired. The headache he has been dealing with since waking up is throbs at the pulse of his heartbeat, and it’s hard to concentrate on his footing as they make their way through a series of abandoned mines, a shortcut to their destination. Ever so often, Varric looks back at him. He wishes the familiar face of one of his dearest friends was as comforting as it should have been, but this entire situation has him feeling little else but dread.

Along the path, the group is met with dozens of demons of all shapes and forms, some of which he has never laid eyes on before. With everything in him, Archer fights, tearing through every foe with ease. His body, though tired and broken, has been through hundreds of battles – fights between brothers, fights against darkspawn in Ostegar, fights against Carta and Qunari and Templars. He allows his body to move effortlessly, unconsciously, until he’s met with something not so familiar.

The group finds themselves inside of the temple, at the heart of the breach. The green light is so bright, it’s nearly blinding. Just hours – at least what felt like hours – ago, this place had been a beautifully crafted stone temple, filled with thousands of hopeful, skeptical Thedans joined together in a single purpose. The floors now are littered with corpses, and the stone steps and walls and banisters in crumbling ruin.

“There is a smaller rift here,” Solas says, pointing where the breach touches the floor of the temple. “Perhaps if you seal this, you can also close the breach.”

Archer nods and heads along a stairway leading down towards it. Echos of voices bounce off the walls of the broken temple. There’s a loud, deep roar from a clearly malevolent being, the shrill, scared voice of the late Divine, and, finally, Archer hears himself. The warrior reaches up with his hand to close the rift, and blurry images of the three voice owners show themselves before Archer manages to complete the task.

“We have an intruder. Kill him, now,” the deep voice rumbles. It’s familiar to Archer, but not because he clearly heard it earlier this day; it’s familiar as though he has heard it years ago.

The images disappear, and Cassandra lunges forward towards Archer. “Was this true? You were here…who killed the Divine?!”

Archer pushes her back. “I don’t know!” Varric steps forward, putting more distance between the warriors.

Solas speaks up, breaking the silence. He says that he believes that the breach can be closed using the same method Archer can use to seal up the rifts, but they need more help, more strength. Archer isn’t sure, even with rest, that he’ll have the ability to do something like this. But his thoughts are cut short as demons start to pour out of the sky. The group starts to fight, and Archer finds himself fighting along Varric just as they had back in Kirkwall, tag-teaming their way to an easy victory. Finally, Archer manages to extend out his hand and close the rift. The pain he’s feeling in his hand and head make him feel as though he’s going to explode. Pain is the last thing he experiences before everything goes black.

 ~oOo~

When Archer wakes up, he feels nothing. No pain. No sadness. No joy. He doesn’t have a clue where he is, but he doesn’t care either. If he can just stay here in this small, unfamiliar room, he can forget everything that has happened, and everything he has been. He can just be Archer. Not Archer Hawke. Not Archer Trevelyan. But then he looks at his hand, and sees the annoyingly bright green light seemingly permanently fixed in his palm. _Why did it have to be green?_ _I’m going to have to completely change my wardrobe now…couldn’t have at least been blue to match my eyes?_

Archer jumps up from his prone position on a bed as the door to this unfamiliar room opens up. He is summoned to get up, and he blindly follows the small elf who has fetched him out into what appears to be a small township or hold. He’s escorted towards a large Chantry where Cassandra and Varric are waiting for him.

“Welcome to Haven,” Varric says with a smile. Archer struggles to match it, but manages somehow.

“I’m going to tell the advisors that you are here,” Cassandra says to him. “Wait here until I come to get you.”

As soon as she leaves, Archer turns wide-eyed to Varric. “What the bloody void am I supposed to do, Varric? Why hasn’t Leliana said anything to her about who I am? I _know_ she recognizes me!”

Varric smiled. “She definitely knows it’s you, despite the tattoo removal and the ridiculous haircut.” Archer frowns and runs his hand along what hair he has left. With hair as black as his, he knew dying it was no option, so, rather than keep his mop of thick hair, he shaved the sides and left the hair in the center of his head longer and slicked back, the longest parts reaching to his shoulders. He rather likes it, ridiculous or not.

“And if you’re panicking about her, wait until you see who else is in there. I’m going to keep Cassandra out here so you can deal with it, but you’ll have to think fast on your fee-“ Varric stops talking as soon as he sees the wooden door to the Chantry open.

“Let’s go,” Cassandra orders. Varric makes an attempt to justify why the two of them should wait outside while Archer, alone, goes inside to talk to the advisers, but Cassandra won’t hear it. The dwarf grumbles and decides to walk in quickly before the two humans can. He rushes inside and to a room at the end of the Chantry’s main corridor, and he quickly looks at the three other people inside telling them not to say anything about who is coming in with Cassandra.

As soon as Archer walks inside, he feels a scream welling up inside of him, desperate to come out. He sees a woman in beautiful yellow and purple garb who he doesn’t recognize, Leliana, and Cullen. _Fucking Cullen._

The wavy-haired man squints at Archer and nearly gasps. Leliana moves next to him and steps on his foot, silently commanding him to remain quiet about the situation.

“This is Archer Trevelyan,” Cassandra says to the room. And then to him, “You have already met Leliana, former Left Hand of Divine Justinia V. This is Cullen Rutherford, former Kirkwall Templar. And finally, Josephine Montilyet of Antiva. In light of what has happened at the conclave, the four of us have decided to rebuild the Inquisition of old, continuing on from the Divine’s orders before she-“  Her head hangs in sorrow. She doesn’t need to continue.

Archer tries his best not to look over at Cullen who is trying to bore a hole through him with gaze alone. “I’m sorry, rebuild what?”

“The Inquisition,” Cassandra repeats. “We were reforming to restore peace between the Templars and mages, and, as of now have failed to find a leader. But we need to close the breach, restore that order before worrying about anything else. Without another suitable choice, we need you, Trevelyan, to help us. You are the Herald of Andraste.”

“Um,” Archer shakes his head and looks at the other faces around the room, none of which give him encouraging looks, Varric included. “I’m sorry for repeating myself, but what?”

Cassandra shakes her head. “Isn’t it obvious? The mark on your hand…the figure you saw. You were touched by Andraste herself! At the very least we need the power she’s given you to help us.”

“Stop right there,” Archer says, putting his hands out as if to physically stop a blow. “I did _not_ see Andraste. That’s utterly absurd.” To say he is not religious is to put it lightly, but from what little he knows of the Trevelyan line, he knows he’s got to at least pretend to be Andrastian. “I just…I know it wasn’t her I saw.”

“What you did or did not see isn’t entirely relevant,” Leliana chimes in. “Your ability to close the rifts with your hand is reason enough why we need you to stay with the Inquisition.” She looks over at the dwarf. “Varric, can you and Cassandra work on sending word out to Ferelden to find us more recruits? The four of us will have further discussion while you-“

“I should be part of this,” Cassandra says, cutting her off.

Varric places his hand on the back of Cassandra’s upper arm, just above the elbow. “Come now, Seeker, let them talk.” As non-religious as Archer is, he starts to pray to whoever might be listening to make Cassandra leave before Cullen, whose face is growing redder by the second, spontaneously combusts. And to his surprise, the seeker huffs and makes her way out of the room with Varric just behind.

“WHAT IN THE NAME OF THE MAKER IS GOING ON HERE?” Cullen blurts out as soon as the door is closed. He rushes over towards Archer who quickly charges right at him in turn. “Trevelyan, really?! Cassandra doesn’t know…And _why_ are you even here? Is that mage of yours even-“ he points his finger right against Archer’s chest, and the warrior grabs him by the feathered pauldrons on his cape with both hands.

“Don’t you touch me, Rutherford!”

Leliana rushes between them and pulls them apart. “Enough of this! Both of you, three paces back, and let’s talk about this like adults.” Both men scoff and move back far enough that it would take more than a quick jump to get at the other one.

Josephine, for the first time, speaks up. “Archer _Trevelyan_? Of Ostwick, correct? I can’t recall an ‘Archer’ in that family, but-“

“I asked you what you were doing here. Is _he_ with you?” Cullen demands, cutting Josephine off.

Archer sneers at him. “Is it any of your business what I’m doing here? And I should ask what _you’re_ doing here. Run away after Meredith went loony?” Cullen starts a rebuttal, but Archer doesn’t allow him the time to speak. “If I knew where in the world he was, I’d be with him, not in here. And I certainly wouldn’t tell a bloody Templar. The same bloody Templar who _stole_ my sister from me!”

“I was doing my job, and I’m not a Templar anymore!” Cullen shouts. “I think we all have the right to know what you’re doing here considering the circumstances.”

“I feel as though the three of you know something I-“ Josephine is cut off again.

Leliana steps in. “I agree with Cullen, Archer, we need to know how you got into this situation before this goes any further.”

“He’s not going to tell us, Leliana, he’s hiding that murderer!”

Archer yells and starts to rush forward at Cullen before he stops dead in his tracks. A high-pitched yell and a slam of a fist on a large wooden table in the center of the room causes all eyes to dart towards the dark-skinned woman.

“I’ve had just about enough of this,” Josephine says, straightening the front of her dress. She looks directly at Archer. “Who, exactly, are you, and what am I missing here?”

“That’s Archer Ha-“ this time, it’s Josephine who does the cutting off, simply raising her palm in front of her in Cullen’s direction. “I’m asking _him_.”

Archer breathes in deeply through his nose, holding this breath before slowly releasing it. “My name is Archer Hawke. You may have heard of me: Champion of Kirkwall, an instigator in the mage uprising, devilishly handsome…” He grunts as he feels the back of his head be slapped by Leliana. “I came to the conclave in search of an old…friend. I just so happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time, and woke up with a green hand.”

The Antivan woman walks closer to him, eyeing him up and down. “I-yes, I know who you are, but, clearly, you have some reasonable explanation as to why you gave a false name, no? From such a well-known family, I might add.”

“I,” Archer searches his mind to try to come up with something that doesn’t sound as outrageously stupid as the actual reason. He fails. “I panicked when I saw Cassandra. I know she was looking for me before all this, and I thought she would kill me if she knew it was me. So, I made up the first thing I could think of, and it was this.”

“Dumb enough to keep your real first name though,” Cullen spits.

“Or,” Archer suggests. “Smart enough because who would be dumb enough to use their real first name when they go into hiding?”

Cullen blinks twice. “You, apparently.”

Leliana pinches the bridge of her nose between two fingers. “You know, Cassandra was looking for you, but not to kill you. She and I were trying to find you or the Hero of Ferelden to lead the Inquisition. Ironically, here you are.”

Archer’s eyes grow wide. “I had no idea.” He puffs out his chest. “Excellent, then. I guess we can let out the truth then and be done-“

“No,” Josephine says. “If Cassandra wasn’t going to kill you before, she most certainly will now.”

“Not to mention that you were, overwhelmingly, the unpopular choice among officials when we were deciding who to make as Inquisitor,” Leliana admits.

Cullen laughs under his breath. Archer narrows his brow and scoffs. _I’ve never been unpopular._

“You must consider that the Inquisition was formed under the Chantry, and, while we govern under our own rules, we remain a Chantry entity. You, Hawke,” Leliana continues, “unknowingly or not, helped to destroy one of the largest Chantries in all of Thedas, and you have been entirely unapologetic about it. I think we have to continue to keep your real identity a secret, at least until you’ve done something of enough merit that no one could doubt your worth. We won’t make you the Inquisitor…we’ll just have you in a leadership role as the Herald.”

“You can’t be serious,” Cullen says. “We’re going to form an entire operation around a lie?”

“When did you manage to get morals, Rutherford?” Archer asks. “You know exactly how disgusting and heartless you Templars are. You know what happened in the Circle in Kirkwall.”

The blond clenches his fists. “I left! I gave up that life _because_ I saw how bad it was. Excuse me for trying to redeem myself…for daring not to lie about something as huge as this!”

“You left only when Meredith lost it…after _seven_ bloody years of either handing out or turning a blind eye to the abuse and madness behind those walls. It doesn’t take anyone seven years to learn right from wro-“

“Enough!” Josephine throws her hands up into the air before quickly lowering them and clutching them together. “I don’t think any of us like the thought of lying about anything. But…but sometimes things require a bending of the truth. We have a rip in the sky that is allowing demons to pour into our world. If a lie is what it takes to get it closed, we lie."

Leliana nods in agreement. “That settles it. The four of us are the only ones who will know about your true identity, at least until further notice.”

“Five,” Archer corrects. “Five with Varric.”

“ _Five,_ ” Leliana amends. “And you two,” she says, glaring at the men, “will pretend to be cordial at the very least. As far as everyone else is concerned, you’ve only just met.”

Archer and Cullen stare at each other for several moments before Cullen nods in agreement. Archer agrees mentally, but he can’t bring himself to make motion of it.

“Let’s just get this breach closed so we can all go on with our lives,” Cullen says with a sigh.

Josephine shakes her head and moves closer to Archer, placing her palm on his right shoulder blade. “Come, Archer. Let me discuss House Trevelyan with you. Our families are close, and we can’t have you faltering on your facts.”


	3. Chapter 3

Archer exits the Haven Chantry a good three hours after he first entered it. As a Hawke, he knows very little of his extended family. There were his parents, his two siblings (with only his sister surviving), his living uncle Gamlen, and a living first cousin whose actual first name is still a mystery to him. But, as a Trevelyan, he knows more than he would ever have cared to. Josephine had sat down with him, drawing out the Trevelyan family tree from her memory stretching back three generations. Archer, of course, had no place on that tree, so the Antivan woman crafted a place for him that was nearly possible. He is now the bastard son of a bastard half sister to Bann Trevelyan, and this is something Archer knows he can handle as it will give him the opportunity to say ‘bastard’ many times in casual conversation.

Outside of the Chantry, Archer heads out to find the small cabin he had woken up in earlier in the day. He follows the snow-covered cobblestone path leading down through the small city of Haven. He passes by soldiers and tanners and blacksmiths, and each person looks up from their respective duties to stare at him as he strides by. A few years ago, all this attention would have stroked Archer’s ego, but, in the days since Kirkwall, Archer finds himself wanting anything but glory. He’s had more of it in his lifetime than some would see in many. But there’s not going to be any ignoring a glowing hand that can close holes in the sky.

Upon reaching his destination, Archer opens the cabin door to find a familiar face.

“It’s about damn time, Hawke,” Varric says, rising from a chair sat next to the bed. “You’ve got to be starving. I had the bar maid bring in some smoked meats and cheeses for you.”

Archer walks right past the dwarf and sits down on the side of the bed, leaning back to have his shoulders and head hit the wall behind him. “You can’t call me that any more. And I’m not hungry.”

Varric shakes his head before grabbing a tray full of food and setting it right onto Archer’s lap. “I’ll just have to come up with a nickname for you finally. Eat.”

“Didn’t you call me ‘Chuckles’ once?” Archer asks.

The dwarf nods. “I did, but I call the new elf that now, so we’ll have to come up with something different.”

Archer sits so he can look down at the tray of food and his stomach growls, beckoning him to eat something. It’s been over a day since he’d last had anything to eat, and this is a man who typically tries to eat every other hour during the waking period. He reaches down for a strip of smoked beef and nearly groans as it touches his lips.

“You realize you’re going to have to tell me everything that happened, right?” Varric asks.

The warrior nods as he swallows a bite of cheese. “As long as you don’t put all this in a book.” He goes into detail about what happened at the conclave, to the best of his recollection, and he finishes by recounting everything that had just happened inside of the Chantry, perhaps with a small amount of embellishment when it came to his interactions with Cullen.

“What is it with the two of us always ending up in these crazy situations?” Varric asks rhetorically.

“I don’t know about you,” Archer replies. “I just feel like my life has been one cosmic joke after another.”

They both laugh and sit silently for a while, each snacking off of the tray until the last crumb of cheese has been downed. Varric turns and faces the warrior, hesitant to ask what he’s been stalling on. “Why were you there in the first place, Archer?”

“Seemed like I should be there,” Archer says, failing to look at his old friend. “I mean, after Cassandra came to the estate and talked to you-“

“Dwarfnapped me,” Varric corrects.

Archer ignores it. “It seemed like, after all that has happened, I should be there. I had a hand in creating the situation the mages are in now, and I should at least see where it’s headed.”

“You thought he would be there.”

“No,” Archer snaps. He sighs, not knowing why he’s lying to one of his closest friends, and, essentially, the only friend he’s had any contact with in the last three years. Perhaps it’s embarrassment. “I-yeah. I thought he might be there.”

Varric gives Archer the weakest smile he can muster. “After all this time, you’re still not over him? After everything that’s happened?”

Archer sets the tray down on the floor next to him and then proceeds to lay back on his bed. If he wasn’t so tired, he’d joke about Varric being his therapist. “I can’t help still loving him, Varric. I-I don’t think we should be together any more, not after everything. But I need to know that he’s safe. I thought he would be there, and I thought I could see him one more time.”

“Don’t you think that he would let you see him if he wanted you to see him? If he _could_ let you see him?”

The warrior shrugs his shoulders; he really doesn’t know. It’s been more than three years since he has last seen his former partner, Anders. Anders had grown more and more unstable as time went on until it came to this final push against the situation in Kirkwall. The Chantry had grown corrupt. Grand Cleric Elthina claimed neutral ground in the growing arguments between the mages and the Templars. To Anders and many others, this neutral stance was nothing but a lie. The Templars are a Chantry entity, and Elthina casting a blind eye to the injustices happening within, and even outside, the walls of the Kirkwall Circle meant that mages would continue to die and suffer just because of how they were born.

When the Kirkwall Chantry exploded, Archer was shocked. In his own naivety and happiness, he had failed to see what endgame was so obviously laid before him. But, despite his shock, Archer vowed to stand with Anders. When the battle ended and the sun began to rise in the City of Chains, Archer and Anders fled from their home together, setting out to wherever the climate of this new world took them. Not two nights passed on their pilgrimage into the unknown before Archer found himself alone in their makeshift camp. Beside his head, he found a piece of parchment with familiar black chicken-scratch writing that read:

_My Champion,_

_I do not deserve your kindness._

_To keep you safe, I leave you now. Forever._

_Fly free like the dragon you always wanted to be._

_A_

If Archer had felt shocked at the moment the Chantry exploded into a thousand pieces, he wasn’t sure what term he could use to describe how he felt upon finding that note. After everything the two men had been through, the warrior had never dreamed that Anders would leave him like this. He wasn’t so naïve to believe it wouldn’t happen; he just thought it would be a situation out of their control such as Ander’s Calling to the Deep Roads. For over a year, Archer failed to accept what had actually happened. He contacted everyone who he could think of who had known the mage and could give him any information as to his whereabouts. He followed trail after trail until each one ran colder than the next. At one point, his desperation drove him to secretly infiltrate a group out of Starkhaven to see if Sebastian had come up with any of his own leads. He had no such luck, and, for that, he was somewhat thankful.

As the first year turned into the second, Archer decided to change the focus of his quest. Anders was not coming back to him, no matter what. Not as a lover and partner, at the very least. But Archer couldn’t shake the feeling that, if he could just find him, he could convince him to allow him to be a part of his life. He could convince him to let him help in whatever capacity he could to set the world right. Silently, and largely underground, Archer started to focus on helping whatever groups of mages he could find. He would lend a sword, coin, or knowledge wherever he was needed. And, in a way, Archer found a small amount of peace in knowing his life was serving Ander’s purpose, even if it was somewhat selfish. He failed to give up hope that one of these mages he helped to give him some information about his Anders. But, yet again, he had no such luck.

By the close of his third year without Anders, Archer had travelled the to most reaches of Thedas including Tevinter, Antiva, and Nevarra. He turned south towards the Free Marches when he’d caught wind of a potential mage gathering at the place where the Kirkwall Circle fell. When he returned, that’s where he found Varric and Cassandra and news of the conclave. When he decided to go, he made a promise to himself: if he’s not at the conclave, this ends.

And, even at this moment, sitting in this small cabin inside of the walls of Haven, Archer’s heart of heart knows it’s over. He knows that there’s no way that figure he saw could have been Anders. But the hurt is too strong to bare. He has lost everyone he has ever loved in one capacity or another, and that pain is paralyzing.

“Hawke,” Varric says. It startles Archer back to reality. “I know you and I never talked too much about relationships. I think maybe the only time I talked to you about Anders was to try to warn you about dating a possessed mage.”

“If you’re about to tell me ‘I told you so’, I’m really not in the mood. I don’t regret a second of it.”

Varric shakes his head. “What I was going to say was that I’m sorry. And I know a bit about not being able to be with someone you’re in love with. It’s not fair, but-“ The dwarf looks over at him and sighs. “That ridiculous mage loved you in whatever way he could, and you gave him everything. I think it’s clear he left so you could give yourself everything and then maybe share some of yourself with someone else. Someone who could love you as much as you love them.”

Archer bites the inside of his cheek so hard that he tastes his own blood just to keep from crying. “Would you tell me if he were dead, Varric?”

“What makes you think that I’d know?”

“You have the means to keep tabs on all of us,” Archer says.

Varric can’t deny it because it’s always been clear that he’s got connections everywhere. He nods. “If it’s what you want, I’ll let you know when it happens. But that’s it, Archer. For your own good, I’m never going to tell you where he is until then.”

The warrior nods in understanding. The only thing he wants now, regarding Anders, is knowing that he’s alright. And knowing that he’s alive will just have to be enough.


	4. Chapter 4

In the weeks following the events at the conclave, the newly formed Inquisition works on gathering people to help fight off demons so that Archer might have a shot at closing the breach. Their recruitment process takes them all over Ferelden and Orlais. On their journey, Archer does his best to act the part of this bastard of a bastard Trevelyan, and starts to crack away at the facades of Solas and Cassandra to get to know them if only a little better than he did on their first meeting day. Eventually, between recruiting a Grey Warden named Blackwall, a wiry friend of Red Jenny named Sera, an Orlesian sorceress named Vivienne, and an unreasonably large Qunari named The Iron Bull, Archer procured the balls necessary to ask Cassandra for his sword back, the one he’d had at the conclave. She gave it back to him on a return to Haven.

“Here you go,” the seeker says, pulling his sword off of a rack in a tent near the Chantry. Archer is annoyed that it had been in a place he had passed by dozens of times, but he’s mostly just glad to have it back. “I must say, it is a fantastic sword. Were I so inclined to use a greatsword over a sword and shield, I might have had to keep it for myself.”

Archer quickly takes it from her, holding it up and angling it in several directions to check for any damage. “Regardless of your inclination, I’d have to keep it from you at all costs, Pentaghast. This sword means a great deal to me.”

Cassandra looks at the sword, and points to the tang. It’s decorated with a raised profile of a dragon, and its eye is an inlaid sapphire. “You know, there are many dragon hunters in my family. It is something I trained to do when I was younger as well.”

“I had heard that about your family,” Archer says. “I’ve hunted a few dragons myself-“ He catches himself, suspecting that his Trevelyan-self likely never did such a thing. “In my dreams, that is. I’ve just always been fascinated by dragons. Someone special to me gave me this sword knowing that.”

The seeker nods. “I see. Well let us continue on then. I woulldn’t of keeping you away from the one you love for too long.”

“That was long ago,” Archer says, wishing he hadn’t brought that part up. “But, yes, let’s carry on. I hear we’re needed further south.”

 ~oOo~

Along with The Iron Bull, Solas, and Varric, Archer makes way to some of the southern-most reaches of Ferelden to a region known as the Fallow Mire. Though accustomed to the cold and often dank weather of this country, the Mire was proving to be utterly miserable. The warrior was positive that they had reached their destination in the middle of the daytime, but the sky was as dark as night and the winds howled with the calls of wolves and owls. If the atmosphere wasn’t bad enough, the smell of the bogs was horrible enough that Bull threatened to leave several times within the first five minutes of arriving.

“Herald!” comes a small, sweet voice. Archer looks down and sees the always-joyful Scout Harding standing outside of a small camp. “I’m so relieved to see you, and just in time.”

“Well I’m happy to see something lovely in this wretched place, but _please_ don’t call me that. It’s ‘Archer’,” Archer says peering around their surroundings. “Cullen mentioned something about some of our scouts going missing.”

The dwarf nods. “Sorry, Herald. And that’s exactly right. We’ve had Inquisition scouts in every reach of Orlais and Ferelden since we reformed. But a few of our scouts went missing while they were looking into a lone mage warding off a group of undead. After that we lost contact with them and have no idea where they went off to. If you can find the mage, he may be able to help.”

“Do you know where the mage was last seen?” the warrior asks.

“We last got word that he was northeast of here in a region called The Misty Grove. And, Herald, before you go, there’s one other thing you should know about this mage.”

“Don’t call me Herald, please. And what’s that?” Archer asks.

Scout Harding nods. “The mage appears to be Avvar. He may not take kindly to your intrusion.”

“I think we can handle it, Harding, but thank you.” Archer marches forward with his group, and, when out of earshot of the camp, asks, “What’s an Avvar?”

Varric laughs. “The Avvar are group of human tribes dating way back before the time of any sort of established Ferelden. From what I’ve heard, they do a fair amount of trading with the dwarves in Orzammar. I’m pretty sure they’re nomadic too. Primitive. And a bit backwards.”

“There’s nothing wrong with ancient cultures,” Solas chimes in. “They have their ways which work for them. But there are many hostile groups of them.”

Archer nods as they trek on. “We’ll be careful then.”

If anyone was worried about run-ins with Avvar, that worry was quickly stripped away while dealing with all of the swamp’s other inhabitants. The Fallow Mire is filled to the brim with undead, humanoid skeletons that rise from the ground and attack with the might of three grown men, and there are numerous rifts and demons to boot. It takes hours for the group to make it a mere kilometer away from Scout Harding’s camp with how much they are having to fight.

“It’s no wonder why they lost those scouts,” The Iron Bull says as he pulls an undead apart at its midsection. “At this rate, the whole of Thedas will be ate up by that hole in the sky before we can make it to one lousy mage.”

In the distance echoes a blood-curdling screech, and it’s unlike anything Archer has heard before. He takes off towards it. His group quickly follows, and, in turn, is followed by a half dozen undead who have yet to become full dead. Archer rounds the side of an abandoned house and sees a figure up in a tree. With the sky so dark, it’s hard to make out what is going on, but he sees a long staff that the figure has in hand. It’s owner twirls it once and angles it down towards there ground where a group of undead is growling at the bottom of the tree. Out from the end comes a bright red light that wraps itself around each and every undead in sight. The bones of their bodies start to rattle and crack until each breaks into thousands of tiny specks of dust, littering the ground at the base of the tree. Archer can see the figure turn towards them, pointing the staff in their direction. Before the warrior has mind to move, he sees the flash of red light shoot his way, but hits behind him to the undead who followed them here. Those monsters find the same fate as the first group, and not a single member of Archer’s party is maimed.

“T-thanks,” Archer says, voice shaky.

The mage jumps down from the tree and steps forward into the pale moonlight. The man is young, a half head shorter than Archer, with red wavy hair falling forward over his brow. His face is just barely visible under the heavy hood of his leather coat.

The Avvar man points the head of his staff, wooden with the end appearing to take the shape of a canid, right at Archer, and, this time, the warrior knows there are no undead right behind him. “Why are you here, Lowlander?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to Mike for editing for me!


	5. Chapter 5

“We’re here to find you,” Archer says calmly. To deflect any hint at hostility, the warrior sheaths his greatsword behind his back, and he can hear his companions relax their weapons as well. His eyes stay forward, locked on the Avvar mage before him. “We’re part of the Inquisition. We heard you might know something about a few of our scouts that have gone missing here in the Mire.”

The mage takes a step forward, his staff still pointed directly at Archer’s chest. “We have heard whispers of an Inquisition, Lowlander, and I know where the scouts are.”

Archer smiles, stepping forward. “Wonderful then. Would you be able to point us in their direction or perhaps take us there?”

“Don’t!” the mage shouts, leaping forward just enough to have the head of his staff directly in contact with Archer’s armor.

The warrior freezes, then slowly lets out shakily held breath that can be seen against the cool air.  His eyes trail up from the staff to the mage’s face still cloaked by his hood. The mages eyes appear dark, but the whites stand out brilliantly against a strip of black paint carefully applied from temple to temple.

“We mean no harm, really.”

“Show it to me,” the mage demands. Archer doesn’t know what he’s referring to, but he thinks this is anything but the time for _I’ll show you mine if you show me yours_. “Show me your hand so I know it’s really you.”

 _Oh._ Carefully, Archer moves his hands under the staff still pressing hard against him. His right hand grabs onto the wrist of his left gauntlet to pull it off. The warrior doesn’t even need to raise his hand to give the mage every piece of information he needs to know. The powerful green glow shines bright enough to reflect off of the silver metal buckles on Archer’s armor.

The Avvar mage steps back, disconnecting himself to the other man and stares at his hand with awe and complete absolution of any doubt he may have had. “The spirits told me you would come. I will take you.” Immediately, the mage turns 180 degrees and proceeds to walk hastily along the trail. Archer turns to his group, each exchanging glances of both relief and confusion, before setting off behind their guide.

The group moves silently, only stopping to kill the more-than-occasional undead rising from the surrounding swamps. Eventually, they make their way to a crumbling castle, and the mage stops dead in his tracks, quickly kneeling behind a mostly-intact stone wall. “This is where the scouts were taken.”

Archer furrows his brow. “Taken? We just thought they’d gotten lost. Who took them?”

“The son of my clan’s Thane,” the mage states, nonchalantly.

Varric instantly readies Bianca, pointing it right at the mage. “It’s a fucking trap!” The others quickly draw their weapons.

“No!” the mage corrects in a whispered shout. “The Thane’s son is an arsehole. He wanted to get you here by taking your scouts, but I’m no part of it. I got thrown into the swamp as punishment for challenging him.”

“Explain,” Archer demands.

“The Hand of Korth, the Thane’s son, has grown angry with your Inquisition and your claim to be a messenger of your Andraste. This angers him because your Andraste and your Maker are false gods to our people. He wishes to challenge the will of our gods against yours.” The mage shifts his weight on his other foot, still crouched by the wall. “I have been praying about joining the Inquisition myself, so I told him that, if he challenged you, he wouldn’t win. Then I’m thrown into the swamp up to my chin in undead. The scouts came by and were taken. Then you found me.”

Archer looks back at his companions. “What do the three of you think?”

“I don’t trust him,” Solas answers quickly. “But I think, if this were a trap, he wouldn’t tell us all of this.”

The Iron Bull, completely failing to have any cover behind the wall despite kneeling, shrugs. “He seems ok to me, Boss. And if he wants to join the Inquisition, let him. Anyone who can kill that many undead at once is useful.”

Varric shakes his head. “I don’t have a good feeling about this, but it’s your call.”

Archer still isn’t sure what to think, but he’s somewhere in between what Solas and The Iron Bull seem to feel. “I say let’s see how this turns out before I make any real judgement on you. Play your cards right, and you can come along with us.”

The mage rises up to his feet. “I have no playing cards, but I will fight alongside you.”

“I-yeah, alright,” Archer says shaking his head. “Let’s retrieve our scouts, shall we?”

The group makes their way forward towards the castle. They’re met with undead, fade demons, and a multitude of humans dressed in leather and furs – people he can only assume are more Avvar.

To Archer’s slight surprise, their new-found Avvar mage companion is the first to launch himself forward into battle against his own people as soon as an arrow is pointed in their direction. They have seen the man using magic on the undead, but they have yet to see his full capabilities.

In one quick movement, the mage unsheathes a small blade from his belt, slices into his forearm, and uses the blood to create a powerful, whirling rush of magic that encapsulates and beheads three nearby Avvar warriors.

_It’s always blood magic…_

Archer leaps forward and fights through the crowd of foes, racing through until he can find their scouts. After tearing through a pair of random undead, the warrior finds three of his people locked up in a small jail cell. He hurries around the area, turning over jugs and crates to see if he can find some sort of key. _Worse comes to worse, I can always wait for Varric to catch up and unlock this thing._

“Herald of Andraste!” barks a deep, rumbling voice. Archer turns his head to see a tall Avvar man, a heavy maul in his hands and a horned helmet shielding his face. He is nearly the size of a typical Qunari male. “I would be surprised to see you show your face here, but anyone who claims to speak for a false idol surely has the stuff to show,” he says while grabbing at the crotch of his leather pants.

Since taking on the role of a Trevelyan, Archer has found it hard to not snap back at anyone calling him the ‘Herald of Andraste’. He’s not naïve enough to deny that Andraste existed; of that there is sufficient proof. But he isn’t religious in the slightest. As a Trevelyan, however, he has to play his part, at the very least as a mild believer. And, despite the fact that this Avvar warrior is about to become nothing more than a carcass, he can’t risk being out of character in front of his surviving scouts.

“Let it be known, Avvar, that I did not place that title upon myself. And, while I am a somewhat religious man, I had come here today hoping to negotiate with you. Yet, after seeing this alarming display of disrespect and arrogance, I now see that I have no choice but to kill you.”

The Avvar warrior laughs. “You can’t kill me, you ridiculous man! I have the gods on my side! I call to you, Korth the Mountain-Father. Give me streng-“

He is cut off with a loud “ _Oof_ ” escaping his lips as a magical blast hits him right in the gut. Archer turns around to see his companions as well as the Avvar mage who had just challenged the son of his clan’s Thane.

“Fóstrisen!” yells the Avvar warrior. “How dare you! After my father took you into the clan!”

The mage, _Fóstrisen,_ Archer assumes, glares at him. “You put the entire clan in danger over nothing! The Inquisition poses no threat to our people.”

“ _Our_ people?,” the warrior spats. “If you survive this, I hereby banish you back to wherever you came from.”

“When I survive, I’m going to use your skull as a canteen!”

With that, the Avvar warrior springs forward, launching himself right at the mage. Archer and the rest of his companions immediately get right into the action, slashing with swords, unleashing arrows, and using penetrating magic until the large man falls into a heap on the ground. The mage walks over to his body and presses the end of his staff into his side a few times to make sure he isn’t moving. Once it’s clear the man is dead, the mage kneels down to rummage through a pouch on the side of the warrior’s belt. He pulls out a rusted metal key and hands it to Archer who then quickly releases the Inquisition scouts.

“You did alright, kid,” Archer says to the mage.

“I’m not a kid,” the mage corrects. “But thank you.”

Solas looks up at the sky and then back at the path leading back towards the Inquisition’s camp. “I think it would be best for us to stay here for the night…day…whatever it is. We could all use some rest, and this castle will offer us some protection from what undead remain outside.” He turns to look at the other mage. “Should you come with us, I would like to ask you about the spirits you spoke of earlier. But, for now, I will take the first watch.”

With Solas taking up station in the castle’s keep, the rest of the crew, including the Inquisition scouts, find their way over to a courtyard area containing a fire pit. Archer sets his sword down and starts to strip off his heavy armor.

“Hey, mage, do you think you could light the fire for us?” he asks, turning to see that Fóstrisen isn’t next to them. He looks back to where they’d just fought the Avvar warrior, and finds the mage gripping onto the Avvar warrior’s head. Archer, the Iron Bull, and Varric all watch with mouths agape. With a quick twist, the mage pulls the head right off the body, plucking it like a single Orlesian grape. Head off, Fóstrisen trots back towards the other men, holding it by hair.

“What?” he asks, looking at their faces.

The Iron Bull shakes his head. “Didn’t think you’d make good on that canteen threat.”

The mage reaches around to a satchel on his back, dumping the head inside of it. He smiles and shivers a little. “Uh, no. That’s disgusting, and I have a perfectly good canteen already. The trophy is good enough.”

“Yeah… _that’s_ the only part of that you’d call disgusting.” Archer, somewhat horrified, asks him to light a fire again, and he happily obliges. All four men and the scouts sit down by the fire and start to warm their dampened skin. For several moments it is silent, until Archer can’t bear it anymore and breaks it.

“I’m Archer. Trevelyan. Archer Trevelyan, the one people are claiming is the Herald of Andraste. The mage watching for us is Solas. This big guy,” he says, pointing to his left, “is The Iron Bull. And to his left is Varric Tethras.”

“Varric Tethras?” the mage asks. He’s silent for a moment and then gasps. Quickly, he pulls back the hood on his robe and reaches around to his satchel to pull out a book (and not a head, to the group’s relief). “This Varric Tethras? You wrote this?” The mage pushes the book over towards the dwarf who takes it into his hands.

“Wow,” the dwarf says. “Didn’t know you had my books out here in Avvar territory.” He marvels at just how worn the book is considering its publication date was just a few years ago. With a smile he hands it to Archer.

Archer takes the book and his eyes grow wide as he looks at it. _Tales of the Champion by Varric Tethras._

The mage quickly takes it back from Archer, holding it close to his chest. “My name is Fletcher Fóstrisen, Varric Tethras. I love your book.” He looks at Archer. “Did you know you share the Champion’s name? He’s my hero.”


	6. Chapter 6

Archer has never read Varric’s book about him or his time in Kirkwall for a few reasons. First of all, he lived that life in a way that no words on a page could ever really describe. Every struggle as he worked up enough coin to gain access to the city, every ounce of blood he shed, every kiss stolen from a man he loved. Regardless of the dwarf’s embellishments or lack of detail, it couldn’t be told exactly as it was unless Archer had written it himself. Secondly, Archer had heard Varric’s version of the story he recounted to Cassandra when he hid in his derelict home he’d long-since abandoned.

But, as Fletcher, their new Avvar mage companion, continues to go on and on about the tale, Archer starts to wonder what was really in that book. Perhaps it’s just a long-lost massive ego after years of wallowing in his own self-pity, but Archer has found it hard to imagine that anyone could read about his life in Kirkwall and find him impressive or a hero. He honestly finds the mage’s enthusiasm about his past life painful to listen to, and once the mage brings up Anders’ name, Archer decides he needs to distance himself immediately.

“I’m going to relieve Solas of watch-duty,” Archer says, getting up from his place on the ground. He starts to gather his armor and reassembles it.

“You sure, Boss? He hasn’t been keeping watch for an hour even,” The Iron Bull states, looking up at the warrior.

Varric clears his throat. “Go on, Archer, this kid is wearing me out anyway with all the praise. Let Solas come down here and pick his brain about spirits or whatever.” He gives Archer a sympathetic look that the warrior greatly appreciates.

Archer walks off and up to the keep, hearing Fletcher’s enthusiastic voice resonate in the distance. It’s at this moment that the warrior decides he needs to distance himself from this mage for his own good. He’s either likely to correct him on something he should have no idea about, have his ego stroked in ways that shouldn’t be, or he’d fall back into a depression about the friends and loved ones he’d lost. It’s time to push the past firmly behind him, and, perhaps, find a distraction in the present.

~oOo~

Just a few days after meeting Fletcher, the group makes its way back to the Hinterlands. They travel to the northern reaches and a village called Redcliffe. Archer travels there with Varric, Solas, and, to his displeasure, Fletcher. Fletcher, though, has been relatively quiet about Varric’s book and the Champion since their first day together.

While in Redcliffe, the group is find themselves in local tavern, and they meet Grand Enchanter Fiona. She informs them that the free mages have taken up an alliance with Tevinter.

Archer feels his blood boil. He remembers, while he was with Anders, listening to the mage speak of how much he envied the mages in the northern country because of all of the freedoms they had. However, the mages of the Tevinter Imperium were often cruel slave-owners who resorted to blood magic. Not being a mage himself, Archer has always been wary of expressing opinions on blood magic, but his views skewed to a more negative mindset despite his friendship with Merrill and his seemingly normal new companion, Fletcher.

 Fiona introduces Archer and his companions to Magister Alexius and his son Felix, and it soon becomes clear to them that not everything is as it seems. Felix arranges a secret meeting later in the evening with the Inquisition group, and Archer, curious about what’s going on, refuses to miss out on it. When the group returns to the tavern, they realize that Felix is nowhere to be seen. Instead, they find a different mage fighting off fade demons. Archer quickly jumps into action, closing the rift, and the mage turns to face him.

_Hello, distraction._

The mage, tall and slender, has gorgeous brown skin and a moustache that would be silly had the face it sat upon not been so handsome.

“Fascinating,” he says, his accent clearly of Tevinter. “How does that work, exactly?”

He laughs when Archer shrugs. “You don’t even know, do you? You just wiggle your fingers, and boom! Rift closes.”

“Who are you?” Archer asks, a little too eagerly.

“Ah, getting ahead of myself again, I see. Dorian of House Pavus,” the mage states with a small bow. “Most recently of Minrathous. How do you do?”

“I do so great,” Archer blurts out. “I mean…I’m well, thank you.”

Varric chokes back a laughter. “Maker you have a type,” he whispers.

Archer scoffs under his breath. “I do _not_.”

Dorian smirks. “Glad to hear it. And thank you for coming. I assume, with that fancy green hand of yours, that you’re the Herald of Andraste.”

“I’m-uh, I’m Archer Trevelyan, and that’s what some are calling me, yes.” He gestures behind him. “These are my companions The Iron Bull, Varric, and Fletcher.”

The Tevinter mage very briefly looks to the group, spending more than a few seconds looking at the Qunari. “A pleasure, I’m sure. Felix should be coming shortly, but, in the meantime, I could use your help. To reach Redcliffe before the Inquisition, Alexius distorted time itself. The magic Alexius is using is wildly unstable, and it’s unraveling the world. I helped develop this magic, and he’s using it to help an elitist Tevinter cult called the Venatori. You need to deal with him, and I want to help.”

“We’ll help,” Archer says, hardly letting the mage finish.

“Boss, maybe we should talk about this before helping a ‘Vint.” The Iron Bull suggests.

Archer mentally argues with himself that he’s just so eager to help because he’s always been pro-mage, and he wants to help whatever mage is in need, but the larger part of his brain knows far too much of this has to do with his instant physical interest in one Dorian Pavus.

“We need the mages to help us,” Archer states, not exactly lying. “If we can help him stop Alexius and this cult, the southern mages can help us close the breach. They’d be far more useful to the Inquisition than the Templars anyway.”

With very few protests from his group, they decide to ready themselves to meet Dorian at the Venatori location far outside of Redcliffe.

Once they make the trek, they find themselves face to face with Alexius who reveals that someone known as the Elder One desperately wants Archer in hopes that the events that took place at the Temple of Sacred Ashes could be reversed. A fight breaks out among the group, and Alexius, upon being attacked by Dorian, opens up a portal rift that sucks in Archer alongside Dorian.

The two men find themselves in a dilapidated and transformed version of Redcliffe Castle. An unsettling, familiar red mineral can be seen jutting out of crevasses and corners all over the castle. This pulsing red lyrium brings back haunting memories of Bartrand and Meredith back in Kirkwall. Archer knows all too well how dangerous this substance can be. Whatever future this is, it’s a future he doesn’t want.

“We need to find my friends,” Archer states, stepping towards the center of the room and away from the lyrium. “And get back to the present.”

Dorian smirks. “Yes, that last bit is important too. But it won’t be easy. Alexius is powerful, and this magic is beyond what I thought possible.”

“We’ve got this,” Archer states confidently, pulling his greatsword from his back.

The mage looks him up and down and smiles with his eyes. “You and I will have to celebrate once we make it out of here."

Together they search the castle and find horrifying future versions of their companions, each having endured what they believed was a year of misery among the lyrium. To Archer’s surprise, they also find Leliana, strung up and tortured to the brink of death. With no time to waste, Archer and Dorian press on through the castle. After a series of grueling battles, the two men manage to free their friends, take down Alexius, and set time straight.

Upon their return to the present, an ultimatum by Queen Anora solidifies the need for the southern mages to pledge their allegiance as allies to the Inquisition to help close the breach. The Inquisitionn group, including Dorian, makes their way back to Haven, the mages swiftly following.

Together, with all hands ready, the Inquisition march down to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. As Archer pushes forward straight into the breach, the mages hold their ground.

In one violent blast, the breach closes. The sky is not quite whole, but it is no longer gaping like an open wound.

The entirety of the Inquisition reconvenes in Haven, spending some much-needed time in peace and celebration. The party, however, is soon cut short.

With just a few minutes’ warning from a strange boy name Cole, the Inquisition learns of an impending attack by Red Templars and the Elder One, the same being that Alexius made mention of at the Venatori camp. Archer and his group make ready for another fight.

They descend the Chantry steps to fight off dozens of Templars until finally the ground within Haven’s walls is clear. The group nearly begins celebrating again, but then the unthinkable happens – a dragon appears, its deadly breath carving a path for more Templars to head into Haven.

In shock, the Inquisition forces retreat back towards the Chantry. In order to save as many souls as they can, the population of Haven is evacuated down a secret path out of the city.

Archer stays behind with Cassandra, Varric, and Dorian. They make their way back outside to face the swarms of Red Templars who have made it into their city. Everything in their path is destroyed – the stables, the bar, and even the cabin that Archer awoke in months ago. The warrior looks into the sky to see the dragon swooping in, and he knows they have to destroy her lest this all be in vain.

“You just may get to hunt your dragon, Trevelyan,” Cassandra says, readying her sword.

“Now I’m no expert,” Varric says with Bianca in hand. “But I think that might be an archdemon.”

As the dragon – archdemon –  moves close, Archer jumps out of the way of the fire shot out from its mouth. As he shakes his head, warding off the pain from the blow, he sees a figure coming towards him that simply cannot be. _No,_ he thinks _. No._

_I killed you._

“Pretender! You toy with forces beyond your ken. No more.” The voice of the Elder One is just as Archer remembers it.

_This can’t be true. I have to have a concussion…_

“Exalt the Elder One! The _will_ that is Corypheus! You will kneel.”

Varric gasps and quickly turns to look at Archer. “How…no. We-Hawke and I killed you!”

Archer feels his heart pounding in his chest so hard that he thinks it may break straight through his armor. His memories of his first meeting with Corypheus come flooding back to him. He was lured into the Deep Roads by renegade Wardens, desperate to have blood – his blood – to awaken Corypheus from his ancient slumber. Not to be a pawn, Archer had fought until Corypheus was no more. At least, so it had seemed…

“I am here for the anchor. The process of removing it begins now,” Corypheus states. He throws out his arm in Archer’s direction, directing a bright beam of red light towards him. The anchor on the warrior’s hand starts to pulse and burn.

“It is your fault, Herald. You interrupted a ritual _years_ in the planning, and, instead, of dying, you stole its purpose! I do not know how you survived, but what marks you as ‘touched,’ what you flail at rifts, I crafted to assault the heavens.”

The pain in Archer’s hand grows almost unbearable, causing him to fall to the ground and wail out in pain. In everything he’s hearing, he can hardly believe that Corypheus isn’t mentioning their past together, or, at the very least, not sensing that the blood used to resurrect him in the first place is flowing through his veins.

Corypheus grabs Archer by the wrist, holding him up into the air. “I once breached the Fade in the name of another, to serve the old gods of the Empire in person. I found only chaos and corruption. Dead whispers. For a thousand years I was confused. No more. I have gathered the will to return under no name but my own, to champion withered Tevinter and correct this blighted world. Beg that I succeed, for I have seen the throne of the gods, and _it was empty!”_

Archer is thrown several meters away, his back hitting the side of a trebuchet before he falls to the ground.

“The anchor is permanent. You have spoiled it with your stumbling,” Corypheus groans.

Archer grips his greatsword, ready to kill him all over again.

 “So be it. I will begin again, find another way to give this world the nation – and god – it requires. And you…I will not suffer even an unknowing rival. Even though you once set me free years ago, you _must_ die.”

And there it is; Corypheus does recognize him. But at this spot, Archer stands alone in front of him. His companions are all too far away to make out exactly what he’s saying…or so he hopes.

Archer has had enough of his threats. With a glare, he rises to his feet and kicks the trebuchet, setting it off and causing an avalanche that distracts the Elder One and his dragon. He barely escapes.

He runs, following the path the others took. He keeps running, not looking back, until finally, he stumbles and falls, knocked unconscious in the middle of a frozen nowhere.


	7. Chapter 7

Archer gathers himself up off of the icy ground. He feels like he just escaped Corypheus, but he’s concerned it’s been longer. His body temperature is low, and, not for the first time in his life, he wishes he was a mage, if only to warm himself. With every inch of his aching body that he can still feel, the warrior walks towards a bright light in the distance.

He grows closer, but he’s fading. _Keep moving, Hawke…_

He desperately keeps moving, for what seems like hours, although, in reality, it’s just a matter of minutes. For the second time today, Archer collapses unconscious.

~oOo~

When he comes to, Archer finds himself in a makeshift camp surrounded by the entire Inquisition. He’s weak, but he rises.

As the group gathers around him, many begin to sing.

Archer isn’t sure if he’s hallucinating or not, but he peers around to see that even those he wouldn’t imagine are Andrastian are out there singing, solidifying the truth of what’s happening.

It’s at this moment that Archer realizes, whether he’s some actual herald to the Maker’s bride or not, he’s become something so much bigger than himself – so much bigger than he’s ever been. All these faces looking up to him are looking to his leadership. For better or for worse, his life has great purpose now, and only he has the ability to bring these people together.

With the guidance of Solas, Archer leads the people of the Inquisition further north of Haven, trekking up steep and snowy mountains to some ancient place he dearly hopes exists. Cold days pass, and colder nights fall.

Finally, upon the distant horizon, he sees a castle seemingly surrounded by naught but sky. It can only be Skyhold.

The Inquisition pours through the gates, hundreds of bodies with new-found energy rejoicing at a new place to call home. Archer stands on a raised walkway to the castle above an outer courtyard. Cassandra and the advisors meet him there, and they present him in front of a crowd of growing people.

“Archer, you are the one who brought us here. You are the only ones with the means to stop Corypheus. We need a leader – the one who has, truly, already been leading us. We need you,” Cassandra says.

Archer nods, knowing it’s what they need even if it’s not what he wants. He thinks back over the last few months, still stunned that it’s him standing here, living this half lie.

Cassandra presents him with a sword, his own from before but polished and glowing, enchanted perhaps.

He takes it in both of his hands. “Corypheus must be stopped,” he says, addressing the group. “I will lead. We will fight. We will triumph!”

The crowd below cheers with gratitude and adoration. Archer lifts the sword staring down at them. So many faces he doesn’t know, and so many familiar from new and old friendships alike. He’s felt as though he’s messed so much up in his life, and, this time, he’s determined to set the world right.

~oOo~

Hundreds of people continue to flock to Skyhold after Archer is made Inquisitor. Blacksmiths, tailors, carpenters, soldiers - all willing to lend hands in any way they can.

As efforts begin to rebuild the old castle, other efforts are made to ready troops for battle. Archer, now ‘Inquisitor Trevelyan,’ meets with Varric, Cassandra, and his advisors with no time to waste.

“Now that we have a place to settle, we need to find out all we can about this Corypheus,” Josephine says, scribbling notes on some of the parchment she always seemed to be carrying around. “All we know about him is that he wants your mark.”

“I agree.” Leliana sits down on a nearby crate. “I would feel a lot better if we knew more about what we were dealing with.”

“I know someone who could help with that.”

Archer turns to Varric, horrified. After everything that has happened, he doesn’t think this moment is the most appropriate to out him in front of the seeker. _Especially as I sit here unarmed, and she’s got a freshly-sharpened sword on her back._ Thinking back to who else came with him and Varric when Corypheus awaked, he starts to feel his heart pounding. _There’s no way he could talk Anders into coming, not after all this._

“I sent a message to an old friend who has crossed paths with Corypheus before,” Varric continues, completely ignoring the _I’m going to murder your short ass_ glares that Archer is giving him. “Might be able to help.”

Cassandra straightens up on the balls of her feet. “Is it Hawke?” The group all starts to murmur, eyes darting around at each other. It’s no secret that Archer Hawke had dealt with Corypheus before; it was common knowledge, something Varric had expressly advertised about being in his book. And Cassandra, at the very least, had heard the tale when she was interrogating the dwarf many months prior. But if Varric thinks for one second that Archer is ready to come clean to her…

“It’s _a_ Hawke,” Varric corrects.

Archer’s heart skips a beat. Besides him, there’s only one Hawke left.

~oOo~

“My baby sister?!” Archer growls as he walks out of the front entrance to the grand hall, the moment they’re out of ear-shot of the advisors and Cassandra.

Varric runs after him to catch up, his short legs never a match for the warrior’s long ones. Archer pauses to let the dwarf meet his stride, and then he pushes him off the right side of the walkway down to the ground several meters below.

“Fuck!” Varric yells, landing in some conveniently-placed bushes.

Archer runs down the stairs and around to him, picking him up by his jacket. “You’re going to put Bethy into harm’s way! Do you know how hard I’ve tried to keep her out of all the shit that’s gone down over the years?!”

Varric kicks at the other man until he’s set down on the ground. He rubs his hands down his trunk, straightening out his clothes and then waves off some concerned Inquisition scouts he can see behind Archer.

“You’ve avoided her is what you’ve done,” he corrects. “Your guilt from her being carted off to the Circle kept you from barely ever seeing her, so you wouldn’t feel like you’ve failed her all over again.”

“Fuck you, Tethras!” Archer spits.

“Yeah, yeah, fuck me for telling you how it is, Herald.”

“Inquisitor!”

“Whatever!” Varric pushes past him, making his way towards the stairs to get back inside of the castle. “She’s not a child; she’s a strong woman. You should try to look at her that way when she gets here next week.”

Archer crosses his arms and lets the dwarf walk off.

“How dare he? How fucking _dare_ he?!” he mutters before kicking at the bush Varric had fallen/been pushed into. The worst part is that the warrior knows that he’s right. He should be excited about seeing his sister, not angry. At the very least, he should be the slightest bit worried that Varric hasn’t warned her that he’s _not_ playing the role of Inquisitor Hawke.

“Now, now, what did that bush ever do to you?”

Archer looks up and sees Dorian standing above him on the walkway. The mage smiles down at him, his moustache moving with his lips. _Why do I want to lick it, Maker help me?_ He fails to say anything, lest it be babbling nonsense, and watches the other man walk down the steps to join him by his side.

“Not that I can blame you entirely,” Dorian says, looking over at the plant. With his right thumb and index finger, he pulls off a leaf and lets it fall to the ground, then he looks back at the warrior. “Never much cared for bush myself.”

Archer raises his right eyebrow. He’s sure he’s gotten a few scrapes and bruises from a bush or two with all the fighting he’s done in his days, but he can’t imagine what one could do to him to make him actually dislike them or really most any kind of foliage. He certainly did have a ridiculous infatuation with elfroot, but that’s beside the point.

“I’m- you know I’ve got no reasonable explanation for what I was doing, so let’s change the subject, shall we? How are you getting on now that we’ve settled in?”

Dorian smiles at him. “Rather well, thank you, though I do say the library is somewhat lacking. Honestly, I’ve had more luck finding interesting reads from the Avvar boy. Fascinating thing, isn’t he?”

Since coming to Skyhold, Archer has done everything he can to avoid that _fascinating thing._ He isn’t prepared to slip up about the whole Champion thing with anyone who doesn’t already know.

“Quite,” Archer responds, trying to be polite. “If you need anything, let me know, and I’ll see what I can do. More books, better accommodations…?”

“Well, serrah Inquisitor, there is perhaps one thing I would enjoy, aside from your company,” Dorian says, looking him up and down.

The warrior feels his heart drop. He’s, without a doubt, attracted to the other man, but he hasn’t had much of a sense that the mage might have similar, lusty feelings. It’s been an embarrassingly long time since he’s had any sexual experience involving anything but his right hand. If he’s to look forward, not backward, Dorian could be someone to start with.

The mage turns around for a brief moment, looking behind him, before returning his gaze on the warrior whose eyes are fixated lower than they should be. _Or maybe look back…in this one case._

“I’ve been told that someone is looking for me, someone from the Imperium. No doubt they want me to return back home and perform some ridiculous, outdated duty. Though I’m, obviously, quite capable, I would appreciate if I could have you there with me, as backup.”

When he gets no immediate response from the other man, Dorian sighs. “If not you, I could always see if the large Qunari fellow would accompany m-“

“I’ll go,” Archer blurts out, cutting the mage off. “I’d be happy to go with you, Dorian. You’re a… _friend,_ and you’ve helped me out so much so far in all this. I want to do the same for you.” _And more, if you’re interested._

“Splendid!” Dorian remarks, clapping his hands together. “Just you and I on an outing back to Redcliffe. We’ll leave tomorrow at sun up.”

Archer smiles as he watches the other man walk away from him. _Just you and I…almost like a date._


	8. Chapter 8

Arms stretched out against soft, delicate fabric, a sigh leaves Archer’s lips. He is finding it incredibly difficult to sleep, and he feels guilty about it.

When the Inquisition came to Skyhold, he was given the largest bedchamber to himself. Despite rejecting it multiple times, Josephine would not hear of it. She told him that a leader deserves a proper place to rest, and that there was no way he was getting around it unless he physically went somewhere else to sleep, in which case the bed would go unused.

Archer resolved himself to take up residence in the upper level, and he has to admit that it is lovely – spacious, quiet, and with a phenomenal view of the snow-topped mountains. But, as he fails to sleep, he realizes that it’s more than anticipation of tomorrow’s excursion that was keeping him up: it’s also having so much space that he can’t share with someone he loves.

He sits up, swinging his legs over the edge of his bed, and he looks to his left out the doorway at the mountain view. Maybe, starting tomorrow, he can find love. Maybe he can find someone to share with again.

With sleep still at bay, Archer decides to do a little nighttime exploring of the castle. Though they’ve been here a few days, he’s been so busy with planning their next move that he’s hardly had any time to walk the grounds.

One of the places he’s wanted to visit most is the small tavern, the Herald’s Rest, not far from the entrance into the Skyhold bailey. But he doesn’t want to leave by the large front doors, lest he be stopped by a half dozen or more people he’d like to avoid.

So instead, he makes his way up to the battlements, the highest levels of Skyhold. He sneaks around the castle’s perimeter until he finds his way to a door connected to the upper level of the tavern.

Even standing outside of the door, he can hear the muffled, yet lovely voice of the bard inside resonating throughout the interior. He smiles and opens the door, but, upon stepping inside, his smile instantly vanishes.

“Hello.”

“Hey,” Archer says quietly, looking down at Fletcher who is sitting on a bed. It’s just as large as the one he has in his own room, and it sits on the wall to his left. The room overall is quite spacious, but it’s extremely run down. Archer can see moonlight streaming into the room, illuminating the young man’s face through breaks in the stone on the left far wall and even in the ceiling above. There are beams of broken wood that have fallen from above, littering the floor, and there’s even a significant amount of moss growing up along the far wall. On the wall to his right, he sees a large pile of books stacked upon each other.

“I-uh, I’m sorry, Fletcher, I didn’t realize anyone was staying in here.”

The mage closes a book and sets it down next to him on his bed. “No apology needed. I was told to find a place to stay, and no one wanted to be in here. But I didn’t tell you I’d be here either.”

“You’re your own boy…man,” Archer says, correcting himself. “You’re allowed to stay where you’d like. I was just trying to get to the tavern.”

“You all keep calling me that.” Fletcher notes. “I don’t think I look that young. I’m twenty-six, after all. And…I’m not a leper; you don’t have to avoid me. If I’m not wanted, I’ll stay out of your hair. I can stay on the periphery and help however I can.”

_Shit._ Archer walks over to the bed and gestures, silently asking if he can sit. Fletcher, curls his legs to himself, making room for the other man to sit at the foot of the bed. Archer quickly makes sure there’s no Avvar warrior head trophy hiding there before he takes a seat.

“I’m sorry, really. I haven’t intended to avoid you,” he lies. “Everything that’s happening has been a lot for me to deal with, and I’ve been absolute shit at conversation. It’s nothing about you. And, I’m sorry about the age thing, too. Maybe I’m feeling so old lately that everyone younger than me seems like an infant by comparison. In my defense, though, you definitely look far younger than your age.” That part isn’t a lie. The cold weather is making his joints ache each time he rises.

Fletcher smiles at him. “You don’t seem that old, Inquisitor. No more than forty, surely.”

“Andraste’s tits,” Archer laughs. “I’m thirty-six, thank you.” At least he thinks he’s thirty-six. With the days running together, he’s not sure if his name day has passed or not.

The mage shakes his head. “You Lowlanders are so odd. The Avvar would never think to talk about our Lady of the Skies’ breasts.” He doesn’t give Archer time to explain before he reaches over for his book he’d sat next to him, placing it into his lap and opening it to the beginning. Archer realizes exactly which book it is and has to keep himself from groaning in displeasure. “Did you know that you’re the same age as the Champion?” Fletcher asks.

_Why yes, I did know that,_ Archer thinks _. I also share his parents and eye color and love of Antivan food._ “No, I didn’t,” he lies again. He wants to change the subject badly, but he has a feeling that desire will turn out fruitless. “Fletcher,” he asks. “May I ask what your infatuation is with this book? And, please, I mean absolutely no offense, but I didn’t even know that most Avvar were literate in common tongue. How’d you even come across the book anyway?”

Fletcher closes the book and gently runs a few fingers down along the Kirkwall crest on the cover. “I love this book because these characters feel so real to me.” He looks over at Archer. “I know that they are real people, but I feel like I _know_ them. It is silly, but I feel like they could be my friends. And that is what this story is about – friendship and found family. The Champion of Kirkwall is just a nobody at first, really, and his family is broken, dead, or scattered. Yet he finds these wonderfully flawed people, bends over backwards to help them, and in turn, they are loyal to him and they make such a difference in Kirkwall and even to mages all over the world. Some people may be mad about the mages, but,” he shrugs, “I am biased, and I have lived a free mage my entire life. If I lived there and saw such bad things, I would change it too.”

Archer is so thankful that the moonlight is to his back, keeping his face hidden in the shadows. His heart breaks as Fletcher speaks, thinking back to his time in Kirkwall and all of the people he’s ended up away from. Until this moment, he was never really sure what all was in that book, but Varric must have gotten it right – those people were his family. Fenris, Isabela, Merrill, Aveline, and, _dear Maker,_ Anders. What he would give to have a hug or share a pint with any one of them.

“And, you don’t offend, Inquisitor.”

“Archer.”

“You don’t offend, Inquisitor,” Fletcher continues, ignoring his request. “There are very few Avvar who know how to read the common language. It is not necessary to live and thrive in our communities. But, the fact is, I’m not born of the Avvar people. I’m adopted in.”

Archer turns his head and looks at him, thankful that the conversation has shifted away from the book. “I had no idea. Honestly, I know extremely little about the Avvar culture, so you certainly looked the part to me.”

Fletcher shrugs his shoulders. “I am well-enough integrated at this point. Up until now, I’ve been a part of my clan for sixteen years. My parents were book merchants who would travel all over Ferelden and the Free Marches. I was actually born in Ostwick, though I don’t remember it.”

_That’s the city I’m supposed to be from,_ Archer thinks. He notes not to mention it considering he’s never been able to shake his Fereldan accent, despite spending the better part of a decade in the Free Marches. Not that the mage sounds like he’s from Ostwick either, but he suspects that’s in part to living among barbarians for more than half his life.

“My parents died while on the road when our cart crashed into a tree,” Fletcher continues. “I survived, and the Thane of my clan found me and took me in. I fit in well enough, but it was harder to make friends being an outsider. So, whenever I could find a book, it meant a lot to me because I could feel closer to my parents and also escape into another world if the story was right.” He pats the book on his lap. It’s incredibly worn and well-loved for a book that’s only been out for a few years. “I found this one on a dead body I stumbled upon in the forest, oddly enough. But it is my favorite I’ve ever found. It makes me want to do more in the world.”

Archer shifts on the bed to have a better view of him without straining his neck. He’s honored, really, that a story about himself could inspire someone. “What sorts of things do you want to do, Fletcher?” he asks.

“Help you. Help a hero just like the Champion,” he says with smile. “In my clan, I’ve been studying for years to be an augur. I help send the dead off on their sky burials to the Lady. But, lately, I have been growing restless, and the Sky Watcher, a priest of the Lady, who mentors me believes that the Lady has been nudging me towards another fate. When the Inquisition came, I saw it as a sign, and that’s why I’m here. I don’t know if this is really my path, but I would like to find out.”

The warrior is completely speechless, moved, and he wishes he could tell the other man that he’s met his idol. But he settles on reaching out and placing his right hand on the mage’s shoulder, patting it firmly. “I’m proud to have you with us, Fletcher. Thank you for sharing that with me.” A bit shaken, Archer gets up and sees himself out of the other man’s crumbling quarters. He makes a mental note to have that room patched up as soon as possible.


	9. Chapter 9

After the emotional kick to the gut that was talking to Fletcher, Archer decides not to spend the wee hours of the morning in the tavern. Instead, he packs a bag and readies himself for his excursion to Redcliffe with Dorian since sleep still evades him. Luckily, morning’s first light breaks quickly, and, after raiding the kitchen, he waits for the Tevinter mage near the front gates of Skyhold.

“Are you ready to set out, Inquisitor?” Dorian asks, walking up to Archer from the east.

“Sure-ah!” Archer startles, leaping back. “No, I didn’t agree to _that._ ” The warrior looks over at the twin chestnut horses Dorian has led over to him by the reins.

The mage raises his brow at him. “Don’t tell me you don’t know how to ride. I thought all boys of noble households learned the fine art of horsemanship.”

_Shit,_ Archer thinks. He keeps forgetting he’s supposed to be some rich kid from Ostwick. Sure, he’s the bastard of a bastard, but, if he’s worked his ways into the family’s good graces enough to attend the conclave, surely, he was well-versed in all things horse.

And, really, it’s not that Archer doesn’t know how to ride horses. More than anything it’s that he _hates_ them. His family, during his late teenage years, had settled in the Ferelden village of Lothering, and they lived near a horse breeding farm. He had ridden on a horse or two in his day, and he figured he could take up a job at the farm for some extra coin for the family. He quit three days later having been kicked no less than seven times by a single ornery mare. _Horses are terrible people._

“I-um,” he starts, fumbling with what to say. “I’m allergic.” He fakes his best sneeze. “It’s an absolute shame, but I’m extremely allergic to horses.” He peers behind Dorian at the stables to look at the other animals inside. “And hart. And overgrown nugs.”

Dorian frowns. “Well, we can’t have you dying on us, can we? I’ll go put them back.” The mage, turns the horses around and walks them back to the stables. Archer, out of sight, makes sure to jump back as the horses turn, not ready for another horseshoe bruise on his stomach.

“I hope you packed for overnight,” Dorian says upon returning. “Without the horses, we won’t be able to return until late tomorrow.”

The two men head out, and Archer is swiftly reminded just how far Redcliffe is from Skyhold. Not that he minds, however, because he’s enjoying passing the time getting to know Dorian.

Though Archer Hawke has travelled to Tevinter in the last few years while searching for Anders, he decides it’s unlikely that Archer Trevelyan has done as much. He asks Dorian a great many question about their lifestyles and culture, if only to hear the way he talks and enunciates certain words. Archer is pleased that Dorian seems to enjoy being the center of attention because there are far fewer questions asked of him about his family and home life. The story he and Josephine came up with only goes so far, and Archer worries that his occasional improvisations won’t always match up. He makes a mental note to take written notes on his fake life to study later.

As the sun begins to fall behind them, Dorian and Archer find themselves outside of the same Redcliffe tavern where they had first met. Not knowing who lies inside, the mage sighs and pushes open the door. Rather than being filled with patrons during this normal business hour, Archer is surprised to see only a single man sitting at table in the far corner of the room.

“You have to be kidding me,” Dorian mutters under his breath.

The man rises from his seat, taking a few steps forward. “Dorian…”

“Father.”

“I apologize for the deception. And, Inquisitor, I never intended for you to be involved,” Dorian’s father says, turning to Archer.

“Of course not,” Dorian spats. “Magister Pavus couldn’t come to Skyhold and be seen with the dread Inquisitor. What would people think? What is this exactly, father?”

The magister sighs, looking to Archer for sympathy. “This is how it has always been.”

Archer has no idea what’s going on between the two men or what could have happened between them to cause this animosity. He’s never had to play the role of parent, but, in the role of son, he knows what it looks like when a parent makes you feel like a failure. He hates to think ill of his mother, but she always knew how to guilt him, and it seems like Dorian’s father is trying to do the same.

“With all due respect, you had to lie to Dorian just to have to get him here. Make him think that someone else was looking for him. I think your son has the right to be upset.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Dorian remarks, pacing around the front of the tavern anxiously. “But maybe you should.”

“Dorian, there’s no need to-“

The younger mage cuts off his father. “I prefer the company of men. My father disapproves.”

Archer isn’t exactly surprised by this statement. Maybe Dorian really has been giving it his best shot, but he’s been terrible at hiding it if it’s a secret. He’s similar to Archer in many rights, especially with the liberal use of flirtation, but Dorian’s flirting is drastically different when he engages men and women. With women, he’s playful; with men, he seems ready to pounce.

“I don’t know that this is my business,” Archer states. He moves over to Dorian, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. “But I think that sometimes sons disappoint their parents when there’s nothing to be disappointed about. You’re a nice, talented, and intelligent man who has been a huge help to the Inquisition – to me – thus far. I think you should care about the opinions of people who accept you as yourself.”

Magister Pavus steps forward. “Dorian, this display is uncalled for.”

Dorian moves forward, allowing Archer’s hand to slip out of contact with him. “No, it _is_ called for. You called for it by luring me here.”

“This is not what I wanted.”

“I’m never what you wanted, Father, or had you forgotten?” Dorian asks, sneering. “I refused to hide my ‘shortcomings,’ and you tried to _change_ me!” He points at his father. “ _He_ taught me to hate blood magic. ‘The resort of the weak mind,’ those are _his_ words. You started a ritual using the magic you hate so much to make me into your puppet.”

“I only wanted what was best for you,” the magister pleads.

“You wanted the best for _you_!” Dorian corrects. “For your fucking legacy! Anything for that!”                                                       

Archer walks forward towards Dorian again, and he pulls him back slightly by his shoulder. “Let’s go,” he says looking directly at Dorian’s father. “I think we’re done here.”

Both of them turn towards the door, leaving his father alone in the tavern.

Dorian is silent as they start to head out of Redcliffe and back in the direction of Skyhold. Archer toys with what to say with him, going back and forth between trying to comfort Dorian and jesting to try to lighten the mood.

But they don’t say a single word to each other until the sun has finally set and they stumble upon a camp that the Inquisition had abandoned after travelling in the Hinterlands some weeks back. The mage lights a fire with  a few left-over logs.

“Dorian?” Archer looks over at the other man who has sat on the ground near the fire. A delicate breeze passes by, tussling some of his dark hair.

The mage looks up at him and mouths ‘Hm?’

Archer sits to Dorian’s left and ponders a moment before talking. “I’m sorry,” he says, thinking it’s the most appropriate thing he can say.

If he could really be himself – Hawke, not Trevelyan – he’d commiserate with the other man much more acutely. From what little Archer knows of the Imperium and from what he gathered during their meeting in Redcliffe, homosexuality wasn’t favored because it doesn’t allow for the passing on of a bloodline. Though same-sex relationships aren’t terribly uncommon or unwelcome anywhere Archer has called home, he does remember the difficulty his mother gave him when he told her about Anders; about how he intended to spend the rest of his life with another man. Leandra was distraught for days.

_Why are you being so selfish?_ she’d asked him. _If you like men and women, why can’t you just pick a woman? With your brother dead and your sister locked away, you’re the only hope the family has of continuing our family line._

Archer remembers yelling at her. He remembers screaming about it being damn time he could be selfish and, Maker-forbid, fall in love with someone. Eventually, she came to accept it in her own ways. She never gave up hope that Archer would still find some way to give her a grandchild. She died not knowing that Anders had expressly forbidden it.

“I-thank you,” Dorian responds, forcing Archer’s mind back to the present. “I have no idea if my father could have made me into what he wanted. But, I guess the part that always hurt the most was knowing that the experiment could so easily have failed. He preferred to risk turning me into some sort of…vegetable over me as I am.”

Nervous, Archer inches his right hand over to cover Dorian’s left. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad he never got the chance to change you. You’re perfect just how you are.”

The mage intertwines their fingers as he turns to stare directly at Archer. With their eyes locked on each other, silently questioning their feelings, Dorian leans in and then the warrior meets him half way, pressing their lips together. A tingling sensation rushes over Archer’s body, something he hasn’t felt in years. He wonders if the mage feels it too.

“I want you,” Dorian states. “I want you here and now.”

Archer is terrified yet exhilarated. He wants to see if the mustache tickles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to thank everyone for the amazing response I've been getting on this fic. I really only imagined that my two friends would be reading this, so to have others read, kudos, and comment has been absolutely amazing. 
> 
> We've got so much more to come, and I hope y'all enjoy the ride!


	10. Chapter 10

It does.

“I wasn’t sure if you liked men,” Dorian pants as he starts to strip off his robes. Archer begins the lengthy process of pulling off his armor as well.

Between clasps undone and knots untied, the two men make attempts to connect by their lips. Archer is so hungry for it that he bites Dorian’s bottom lip as their motions pull them apart, so hard that he can taste the bitterness of blood.

“I might,” Archer responds, smirking. He hops on his left foot, trying to pull his boot off of his right. “I wasn’t sure if you liked _me_.”

Dorian, with the luck of nearly all mages, has far less complicated garb than your average warrior, and, despite its own fashionable intricacies, he’s stripped naked well before Archer. Watching the other man struggle, he moves behind him and helps him remove the chainmail under his breast plate.

“What’s not to like?” he whispers in his ear, licking the shell of it before he continues. “You’re powerful and ridiculously handsome. There needn’t be any other requirements.”

Archer is relieved as he finally strips himself of his pants and smallclothes, and, once he’s able to find some focus, is equally relieved to see that Dorian is just as attractive without a robe, just as he’d imagined him. “You’re gorgeous.”

“I know.”

“And humble,” Archer continues. He moves closer to the other man, walking slowly until they’re mere centimeters apart. “But you said you wanted me. And I need you to know, Dorian, that I like my men in a very specific way.”

He’s half amazed at himself, falling back into this position so easily after so many years of solitary nights.

Dorian raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “Go on.”

“I call the shots. Your job is to please me, and, I, in turn, will reward you.” He’s so close to Dorian now that he can feel his shuddering breath escape his lips. Archer raises both hands and places them on the mage’s shoulders. With barely any pressure at all, Archer pushes down and he complies, molding to his will like clay. a

Archer looks down at him and raises his head up by the chin so their eyes meet. “You can want me, ‘here and now,’ but this is how it’s going to be.”

While still maintaining eye contact with the other man, Dorian grasps Archer’s cock in his right hand and begins to stroke it slowly.

Archer feels his knees grow weak for only a moment. It’s amazing that another hand can feel so much different than expected. Dorian’s hand, though belonging to a man who, no doubt, has spent his life working hard, is soft and gentle compared to his own calloused sword-wielding hand, or Anders’-

_Don’t_ , he mentally stops himself. It’s not fair to himself or Dorian to let his mind wander to the mage he’d shared his bedroom with for just over four years.

He shakes himself, physically, trying to give himself entirely to this moment. With his mind wandering, Archer completely missed the mage’s free hand, climbing up his body, rising over the hills and valleys of his muscles.

The mage’s fingertips find one of Archer’s nipple rings, and he gives it a small tug. Archer groans with pleasure and smiles down at the other man.

“Good boy,” he mutters under his breath. He reaches his right hand down to stroke his thumb along Dorian’s angular jaw line and then up to his lower lip where he’d bit him.

Dorian hisses as Archer touches the spot where he’d bit him too hard, but he smiles, nonetheless. Staring up at him, he takes the warrior’s thumb into his mouth to suck it gently, never ceasing to keep his hand stroking the other man’s hard, leaking cock.

“Put those lips to good use, Dorian,” Archer commands. The Tevinter’s name flows from his tongue so naturally that he thinks it has to be a sign. Perhaps there is a Maker, and, maybe, just maybe, He finally wants Archer to have some lasting happiness.

The fire is dying down. Dorian nips at the pad of Archer’s thumb before pulling away, freeing it from his mouth. His right hand slides down to the base of the other man’s member, his pinky finger being tickled by coarse, black curls. Eagerly, he dips his head forward, tongue just slightly sticking out to lap at the cock’s swollen head. He hums happily as he tastes him, and then he opens his mouth to take it into him.

“Fuck, mage,” Archer grunts.

Unconsciously, he takes both of his hands and places them on either side of the other man’s head. This is the first time he’s really touched anyone with his anchor hand, and he’s pleased to see that Dorian continues on, almost without notice. There’s no pain, tingling, or even fear associated with it.

For all the times Archer has spent over the past several months cursing this awful thing imbedded into him, he finds himself appreciating the green illumination of the other man’s face as his cock becomes completely engulfed between his luscious, full lips.

With each bob of Dorian’s head, Archer finds it harder and harder to concentrate. It’s been so long since he’s had this sort of attention, and he knows he’s not long for the word.

Archer firms his grip on the other man’s head, holding it steadily in place. The mage opens his eyes peering up at him briefly before quickly snapping them shut as Archer begins to move. He swings his hips forward and back, rocking against the current of his own ecstasy.

Dorian does nothing to stop him, and, if anything, encourages him by groaning. The vibrations against Archer’s overstimulated flesh are enough for him, and, without a hint of warning to the man kneeling before him, Archer moans loudly as he starts to come.

Dorian willingly swallows everything he can.

“Maker,” Archer manages as he comes down from his high. He let’s go of the other man’s head, and Dorian quickly fixes some hair he can feel out of place.

“You’ve done well,” Archer says to him, helping the other man up to his feet. He presses forward and kisses him deeply, able to taste himself on the other man’s lips. Dorian gently works his arms around Archer’s neck, and he rubs his lower half against him, asking a silent question.

Archer smiles, “I guess maybe you deserve some fun after that.”

“As though you’re implying sucking your archdemon-sized dick isn’t fun,” Dorian says before stealing another kiss.

Archer laughs. “How about _more_ fun?”

He carefully walks them a few meters back to a large patch of lush grass. From the prickling feeling he’s getting under his feet, he can only imagine what shape Dorian’s knees are in after kneeling, and he thinks his backside deserves a little more respect.

As soon as Archer decides he likes the spot, he asks Dorian to lay down on his back. The mage looks at the grass, questioning only with his eyes, but he does as the warrior asks. He lies down on his backside, but with his trunk propped up on his elbows and forearms.

Archer takes him in for a minute before joining him on the ground. _He really is a sight,_ he thinks _._ So far, Dorian is panning out to be just about the perfect partner. Archer knew that he found him attractive, intelligent, and interesting, but the fact that he’s so compliant to Archer’s sexual needs makes him nearly too good to be true. The only downside to this is that if – when – the two of them make it official, they’re both going to be arguing about who has the more attractive boyfriend. He’s never had a significant other before who wouldn’t let him even argue that they could be nearly as attractive as he was.

_I’ve never had a significant other besides_ _Anders…_

Archer shakes off the thoughts again and concentrates on what’s before him, namely a gorgeous, slender body, dark brown skin, and a beautiful, leaking cock. The warrior leans forward and kisses Dorian roughly, and it’s met back with just as much enthusiasm.

“Tell me you know a grease spell.”

Dorian smirks. “You’ve been with a mage before, I see.” He lays all the way back and hold out his right hand towards Archer.

“Maybe once or twice.” Archer brings his hand forward, fingertips touching that of the mage.

A dull grey light emits from Dorian’s index and ring fingers, and a slick, oil-like substances slides from his fingers to Archer’s. Pleased, Archer runs his left hand down the other man’s body, stopping at his cock which stands at attention, and, with his right, he reaches down further and between his plump cheeks.

“Yes,” Dorian sighs under his breath as the two hands touch him in his most delicate regions. He squirms unconsciously as fingertips tease his hole. “Yes, Archer, please.”

The warrior’s ears prick at the plea. He stops moving his finger, and he barely lets his hand remain in contact with the other man’s cock. “Please what?”

Dorian’s hips buck up, trying to get any amount of friction he can. “Touch me,” he begs. “Touch me, please, Archer. Make me whine, make me come!”

“I thought I was supposed to be the one calling the shots,” Archer says. He smiles, watching the other man writhe with frustration and anticipation.

“You can, just…if it pleases you, please me. PLEASE!” There’s a puddle of pre-ejaculate pooling at his navel.

Archer can see what’s happening to the man, and he wonders just how desperate he must feel now. But personally he believes Dorian deserves a reward and obliges him. He slides one finger and then two inside of him, curling them up ever so slightly towards the sky. As he feels the other man squirm, he knows he’s found his spot.

With his left hand, he carefully takes hold of the mage’s cock. Dipping his head down, he licks along the backside from the base all the way up to where the head meets the shaft. He takes the head into his mouth and gives it a quick suck before pulling back.

“Tell me before you come,” he says, eyeing the whimpering mage.

“Why?” Dorian asks, question nearly cut off by an unconscious whine elicited by more stimulation to his prostate. “I swallowed yours, but you won’t return the favor? Seems rather rude…”

“No, that’s now what I meant,” Archer corrects. He bobs his head up and down on the other man’s cock a few times before giving him his reasoning. “I just want you to wait to come until I’m properly fucking you.”

“You’re not serious…”

Archer smirks before he aims to take Dorian back into his mouth, but his attempt is cut off when he feels Dorian sit up.

“You’re not fucking me,” Dorian says sternly.

Archer raises an eyebrow and sits up to look at him better. “I didn’t take you for a top considering how compliant you were with all of this.”

The mage shakes his head. “No, that’s not it. We _can’t_ fuck.”

Archers eyes dart back forth, completely confused. He let’s go of Dorian’s cock and pulls out his fingers at the same time. “What are we doing then?”

“Having fun?” Dorian half answers. “We can’t actually have sex. Like sex, sex.”

_What are we, twelve?_ Archer thinks upon hearing the term.

Dorian laughs. “You know our families are related, right? The Pavuses and the Trevelyans have significant ties to each other. We’re…we’re probably fifth cousins or something.”

_A fifth cousin you had no problem finger-fucking you…_

“You knew that…right, Archer?” Dorian looks at him, questioningly. “No one would bat an eye at distant cousins having a little romp in the woods, but, obviously, it can’t be more.”

“Obviously,” Archer repeats, faking a laugh. “If you father was mad before, Maker help him if he saw us having more than…than a romp.”

Archer is actually completely stunned. He hadn’t had the faintest idea that the Pavus family and the Trevelyan clan had any relation. _Thanks a lot, Josephine._

He really isn’t sure what’s worse: Dorian being okay with them having a tryst, to a point, or the fact that he himself is going along with this absurd, out of hand lie when he could call it off immediately and continue on with the other man.

Dorian smirks and proceeds to stand. “You really are talented, Archer, it’s too bad. But,” he says, looking down at his softening self, “I can see that I’ve effectively killed the mood. Why don’t I go catch a fish or two in the creek so we can eat before bed?”

Archer fakes his best smile and nods at Dorian’s suggestion. The mage walks over to him, bending down to kiss the top of his head, and then he makes to gather his robes.

Even with Dorian completely dressed and off to surely use some form of magic to catch few perch, Archer finds himself stuck still, sitting cold and naked in the grass. It’s been nearly four years since he’s opened his heart to the potential to anyone else, and this is how it plays out.

The warrior brings his knees up to his chest, hugging them tightly. _Perhaps I’m just not meant for happiness._


	11. Chapter 11

_I’m hallucinating,_ Archer thinks. _I’m hallucinating from loneliness._ As if that’s a thing. But what else could possibly explain the goat being hurled at the outer wall of Skyhold by a burly man, fur-clad man?

“Is that man throwing goats at the wall?” Dorian asks, stopping dead in his tracks.

“I-yeah. I thought I was seeing things.” Archer and his mage companion had made the long trek back to Skyhold, just shy of the inner gates at the end of the bridge. The night prior was awkward for the warrior, but he did his very best to play it cool. _There’s no time for love when you’re the Inquisitor,_ he told himself no less than thirty times since being turned down. Luckily for Archer, Dorian is quite the extravert and is in no short supply of stories to keep there from being any amount of awkward silence. The mage made sure to tell him about all of the latest news and trends further north, and the two of them found themselves carrying on about fashion until they’d both been caught off guard by the goat-thrower.

“Inquisitor,” a gate guard acknowledges with a slight bow as the two men approach.

Archer looks over to the wall, now splattered in goat blood. “Is no one concerned about this?” he asks, pointing off into the distance at it. The guard purses his lips and moves to stare out over the bridge, looking back in the direction being addressed. He gasps and pulls a small brass bugle off his hip, blasting out a horrible honk as his lips meet the mouth piece. Suddenly, a dozen or so men and women rush forward towards them, and, upon seeing the goat-thrower, they run around in a panic as they try to figure out how to tackle him.

After a moment of silently watching what Archer still isn’t quite convinced isn’t a hallucination, Dorian pats Archer on the back and proceeds to walk into the grounds past the gate. It isn’t long before Archer goes in himself. After a night so exhilarating and disappointing, the warrior wants nothing more than to take a bath. Ever since moving to Skyhold, the one thing he’s wanted regarding his quarters was to have a bath designed for him in his room. He had briefly asked Harritt, who had promptly told him that he had far better things to craft.  Archer really didn’t blame him. He was, however, able to find another metal-worker near the stables who was happy to help. With a warm bath in mind, Archer heads over to see if it’s ready, but he’s promptly stopped.

“Archer?” he hears a voice calling out ahead of him in a deep Antivan accent. “Holy shit, that is you!”

Archer’s eyes dart forward just before his body does. Quickly, he grabs the other man and pulls him forward until they’re away from all of the prying eyes in the busy grounds. “Miguel, when did you get here?!”

Miguel Rivera, tall and handsome with the most beautifully manicured red beard this side of the Imperial Highway, has been Archer’s best friend for years. The two men met nearly a decade ago, around the time that Archer had moved into the Amell Estate in Kirkwall. Miguel had studied under a blacksmith and jeweler in Antiva City, one who specialized in crafting exquisite, yet functional weapons for the Antivan Crows. These weapons were often adorned with the country’s own unparalleled supply of rubies and diamonds.

Once he became a master blacksmith, Miguel took his skill farther south and made a good many contacts. One of these contacts was Bodahn Feddic who, along with his adopted son Sandal, moved into the Amell Estate after Archer had met them in the Deep Roads. Archer had always grown up poor and on the run, so, upon coming into great wealth, he felt it completely necessary to own at least one or two ridiculously ostentatious items. Bodahn got him in contact with Ferelden’s finest armorer, Wade, who made him no less than seven complete sets of armor. But, when it came time to craft swords, Bodahn’s recommendation was Miguel. With Archer wearing his blades down so often, the two men ended up spending a good amount of time with each other, and a meaningful friendship developed.

“Maker, Archer,” the blacksmith chuckles. “I’m happy to see you, too, but a tryst in the stables? What will Anders think?”

Archer realizes that he’s pinning the other man’s back against a wooden column, and he backs off of him. In his peripheral vision he sees several horses and realizes what a huge mistake he’s made trying to get away from anyone who might possibly hear Miguel reveal who Archer really is.

“Anders and I-we aren’t together anymore.” Archer side-eyes the nearest horse, not trusting it for one second.

Miguel furrows his brow. “You can’t be serious.” He looks right at the warrior and realizes that it’s not something he would joke about. “I’m sorry, my friend. It’s been so long, I had just figured the two of you were still together after everything that happened.”

“No,” Archer says shortly. It has been so long since he’s seen the other man. He remembers feeling so guilty that last night in Kirkwall. Miguel had been away, headed back to Antiva to visit his sick mother. Archer was unsure if Miguel ever came back to the Free Marches after news of the battle had spread outside of the city. In his travels after Anders left, he’d even gone to Antiva City, thinking he might find the redhead, but he had no such luck.

“I-um,” Miguel can sense the hurt in the other man and opts to ask him more about that later. “I heard about the Inquisition while I was traveling with Bodahn in Orlais. He wanted to go see how Sandal was doing working under the Empress, and, he needed a travel companion. Fucking Orlesians and their prejudices, no?” He shakes his head before continuing. “I’ve been looking for a place to really do what I do best, and I thought this might be the place for me. I arrived a few days ago. I’m actually going to be doing most of my work with the arcanist, Dagna. I’ll tinker a bit, make a sword or two, and she’ll help enchant them. Hopefully we can help the Inquisitor.”

Archer laughs. “Well, Miguel, just by being here you’re helping him.” The warrior steps back and pulls off his left gauntlet, revealing the glowing green anchor on his hand. The closest few horses nicker at the sight of it. For the entire rest of the afternoon and evening, Archer and Miguel catch up. The Antivan gives a brief recount of his last three and a half years. Archer, on the other hand unloads a novel on his friend, telling him about Anders, the anchor, and everything in between.

~oOo~

“You ready?”

“Yes,” Archer responds nervously. He follows Varric to their meeting place. They walk down a set of stairs to the roof of a tower in Skyhold, and Archer’s breath hitches as he sees her.

“Lady Hawke, I’d like you to meet Inquisitor _Trevelyan_.” Varric emphasizes the name.

Bethany Hawke turns around, and her brown eyes grow wide. They dart back and forth between the warrior and the dwarf, and, even in the fading dusk light, it’s easy to see the mage’s face grow red.

“Are you…are you kidding me?!” she asks at a near shout. Varric holds up his hands and cautiously shushes her. “You-“ she steps forward and closes her eyes briefly, readying herself to lower her tone. “You had my brother here and didn’t tell me.” Her eyes move to Archer and she frowns. “And you…where in the void have you been?”

Varric shrugs. “I did tell you. _This_ is Archer Trevelyan, the Inquisitor.” He can see that she’s still just as confused, if not more. “I’ll let him explain.” He looks up at the warrior sympathetically. “Good luck.”

With the dwarf walking off, Archer moves over to ledge around the roof’s perimeter. He leans over it, resting his elbows on the stone. “You know, Bethy, this view reminds me of the estate back in Kirkwall.”

The mage, still furious, walks over to him and looks down. There’s a garden courtyard below with a dozen or more people tending to herbs or resting under trees. It’s peaceful.

“I had a balcony back home,” Archer continues. “It overlooked the main courtyard in Hightown. I loved it at first, but, after a while – after the whole Champion thing – all I could see were people out there who were depending on me. I used to think it was too much – too many people in that stupid city counting on me. And now it’s the whole of Thedas counting on me to fix everything.”

“You did alright by Kirkwall, and you’ll do alright by the rest of the world.” Bethany turns her back to the view and sits on the ledge to Archer’s right. “Why didn’t you tell me, big brother?”

Archer keeps staring down at the garden. “Varric sent for you, and I didn’t know he hadn’t mentioned this. I suppose he didn’t think it safe to, hence the reason I’m Archer Trevelyan now.” He has so much to tell his sister, but he’s becoming exhausted from sharing his story with yet another person who is going to have to keep his secret. “I didn’t want you involved with this, Bethany. This is-“

“If you say it’s too dangerous, I’ll encase you in stone.”

Archer smirks. As teenagers, any time Bethany was annoyed with her brothers, she’d encase one or both of them in rock until she’d gotten her way or, more commonly, the until the brothers had apologized to each other.

“I was going to say that this is asking too much of you to get involved.”

“I would like to get involved, for once.” Bethany says with a sigh.

“I involved you whenever it was safe,” Archer retorts defensively. “You got to help at the end in Kirkwall and with all the stuff regarding Dad.”

“And that’s why I’m here now.”

Archer straightens up and turns around, sitting down next to his sister on the stone ledge. “I keep going over everything with Corypheus down in the Deep Roads over and over, and I just don’t get it, sis. We _killed_ him. Not just injured, but killed.”

“Regardless of what we did, he’s not dead now,” Bethany says. “When we left there were still Wardens down there. Ever since Varric sent his letter, I’ve been worried they had something to do with his return. And I’ve been even more concerned since I crossed paths with a Warden recently. It’s Alistair Theirin…he said he’d met you. He’s been concerned about corruption in the Warden ranks.”

Archer remembers meeting Alistair for a brief moment back in Kirkwall. Lowtown was absolutely overrun with radical Qunari who were causing an uprising. The Warden helped for only a moment because he was on a mission that couldn’t be delayed. Even though this was several years ago, Archer wonders if this mission had anything to do with Corypheus or this supposed corruption.

“Did he elaborate on the corruption business?” Archer asks.

Bethany shakes her head. “Not much. He only said he was going to Crestwood. I can see if Varric can send word, ask for us to have an audience with him.”

“We’ve really got no other real lead, so it’ll have to do,” Archer says.

“In the meantime, maybe we can ask Anders if he’s heard or sensed anything,” Bethany suggests. “Is he doing alright, even? After everything?”

Archer stares straight ahead. “I don’t know where he is, Bethany. Haven’t seen him since right after Kirkwall.”

Bethany’s mouth drops open slightly, but she quickly collects herself and turns to face him. “I’m-Archer, are you ok?”

“No. No, but I’m going to be.” Archer tries his hardest to smile, and he reaches out to take her hand in his. It’s rougher than he had remembered. Worn. Experienced. She’s really not such a little girl any more.

“Let’s go back to your quarters,” Bethany says with a smile. “I don’t think prying eyes should see the hug I need to give you, _Inquisitor Trevelyan_. Or the smack you’re about to get to the back of your head.”


	12. Chapter 12

Bethany hasn’t been at Skyhold for half a day before Fletcher starts to beg Archer to meet her. Archer isn’t surprised at his excitement considering his fascination with Varric’s book about his days back in Kirkwall, but he isn’t overly keen on the idea of letting the two mages meet. It’s hard enough asking his little sister to go along with his absurd lie and changed identity without subjecting her to an interview with an eager fan.

“I won’t bother her,” Fletcher insists.

The mage had cornered Archer at the tavern. It’s early in the morning, but not too early for the Inquisitor to be granted a pint.

“I just want to introduce myself and tell her that I admire her and her brother.”

“She’s probably tired of people bothering her all the time about him, don’t you think?” Archer asks. He takes a swig of his ale to finish his pint. Pushing his barstool back, he gets up from his seat and then heads towards the door.

“Please, Inquisitor,” Fletcher begs, following him. “Everyone else asks you to do things for them all the time. All I ask is to meet an idol of mine.”

Archer turns before he gets to the door. He crosses his arms and looks at the younger man. “You’re right; you don’t ask me for much.”

After months of working together, Archer’s companions have asked him to help them out with personal things left and right. From locating Warden trinkets scattered across the south to helping Cole become a little more human, Archer has spent most of his free time doing something for every new friend he’s met. Except for Fletcher.

“I’ll have to ask her once she’s had a chance to rest from her journey out here,” Archer says.

“Really?” Fletcher asks enthusiastically. “Inquisitor, that’d mean so much to me. Thank you.”

Archer nods. He’s not sure if it’s the alcohol or not, but he feels happiness well up deep inside him at the other man’s expression of excitement.

“I did have one other thing I wanted to ask of you,” Fletcher admits.

“Really?” Archer asks with a laugh. “After essentially bad-mouthing all of my other greedy friends?”

Fletcher shrugs, a slight smile on his face. “You’re just clearly being generous, so I thought I’d try being greedy myself.”

“What is it then?”

“I-“ The mage pauses before pulling Archer by the arm and out of the tavern, away from the late morning patrons starting to pour in.

“Do you remember how I told you that my parents died and how the Avvar found me and took me in?” Fletcher continues.

Archer nods.

“I’ve been feeling sort of lost since I joined the Inquisition,” Fletcher admits. “I’ve lived with the Avvar for nearly twice as long as I ever spent as a lowlander with my parents. I feel homesick for the current hold, but I’m not even sure what for. Sometimes I miss the meals that the whole clan eats together. I miss my training to become an augur. But it’s not like these are things I have to entirely give up by being here.

“I think more than that, I find that being thrust into your culture makes me homesick for what life I was supposed to have. My parents were lowlanders. We travelled and didn’t have the most traditional life, but it was a good one. I was loved, and I loved them. But, after they died, I just wandered off…they didn’t even get laid to rest properly.”

Archer can see Fletcher is visibly shaken. They’ve had several conversations since meeting, but this is the first time the younger man has showed any real emotion other than rage or excitement.

“What can I do to help you, Fletcher? Name it, and we’ll do it.”

“I want to find their bodies,” Fletcher admits. His head hangs a bit, not looking directly at Archer. “I want to find them and do what I couldn’t do for them before.”

~oOo~

Without hesitation, Archer agreed to help Fletcher, and the two of them headed out towards the Korcari Wilds later that evening, making camp halfway to their destination. As morning hit, they continued on their journey. Though the second season was in full swing, the cold southern air was harsher than Archer had expected. Yet, as they approached the forest edge, there’s a natural break in the bleak and harsh wind.

 “I swore they were here!” Fletcher yells, frustrated as the third supposed ‘sure-fire’ spot turned up nothing. “How can I not remember?!”

Though Fletcher had originally told Archer that he knew exactly where his parents met their end, it was becoming clear that the memory has faded as the years passed. It’s not something entirely unexpected, either, for the mind will often alter itself as a protective mechanism when experiencing something as traumatic as witnessing a death.

This is something Archer knows all too well. Some small details linger in his mind about the deaths of his father, brother, and mother, yet other parts are hazy and untouchable. He can hardly remember what his father’s face looked like as his sickness finally took him. In some small way, he’s thankful for that. It’s likely better to remember how his father looked when he was strong and fearless instead of frail and scared as he was in his dying days.

“Maybe we should take a break...it’s been hours,” Archer states, trying to give his friend a reassuring look.

“No.” Fletcher shakes his head hard. “No, I can do this. I just thought I could remember on my own, but I need help.”

“I’m sorry, I’m trying I just-“

The mage cuts Archer off. “That’s not what I meant. Stand back.”

As soon as Archer does as he’s told, Fletcher pulls a small silver dagger from his belt and presses the tip into the palm of his left hand were a circular, arcane symbol is tattooed into his flesh. Bright red blood trickles down until he moves his hand, beckoning the droplets to swirl and form a sphere. He moves his hands away from each other, the sphere growing in size until finally he forces it forward. The air in front of him appears to shatter, and a yellow-green crack, not unlike a rift, appears. Out of it, a single translucent orange figure emerges, floating towards Fletcher.

“Maker’s balls,” Archer mutters. “Is that a-?”

“A spirit,” says Fletcher, answering a question not quite asked. He rips a small piece of cloth from the hem of his black robes and wrapped it around his palm to apply pressure.

“How did you do that?”

“I reached across the Veil and asked it to come.” Fletcher turns to face the spirit. “I need help finding my parents’ remains.”

The spirit nods and then proceeds to turn, floating towards the east. Without hesitation, Fletcher starts to follow it. And, _with_ significant hesitation, Archer follows too.

Archer has very little experience with the Veil and spirits, although it’s likely more than the average non-mage. Most of what he’s witnessed has been in battle, and then in the peripheral dealings with the spirit of Justice that lived inside his former lover. He experienced the spirit coming forth several times during the course of their friendship and relationship, and he’d be hard pressed to call any of those experiences positive.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Archer asks Fletcher, quietly. He’s unsure if the spirit can hear him, but he’s not about to insult it.

“Of course,” Fletcher says, digging the end of his staff into the ground to help hoist him up a steep hill. “I told you I was training to be an augur, yes?”

Archer grabs a low-hanging tree branch to help keep pace up the hill. “Yes, but you said you help with burials and whatnot. I didn’t know about the spirits. I’m a silly lowlander, remember?”

“Not silly, just uneducated in the matter it seems.”

Before Fletcher can finish explaining what it really means to be an augur, they make it to the top of the hill, and he stops short. Out ahead of them is a rusted, broken down metal wagon frame nestled between overgrown shrubs and ivy. The spirit moves ahead of it, circles around the structure twice, and then stops in front of them.

Archer watches his companion cautiously walk over to it, and he watches him kneel down. Not wanting to impose, Archer stands back until Fletcher finally stands back up and turns towards him. His face is forlorn.

“I feel foolish,” Fletcher says quietly.

“Why?” Archer asks, carefully stepping towards him. He can see the unmistakable white of bone near the wagon. Though covered by brush, it’s easy to see that a pair of human remains lies there.

“I didn’t just want to give them a proper goodbye,” the mage admits. “I was also hoping there might be something left of them. A book or some cloth or…just something I could have to remember them by. But there’s nothing.”

Archer imagines that, after more than a decade, it would have been nothing short of a miracle for anything to remain. Between scavengers and natural decomposition, it’s actually surprising that their bones lay seemingly undisturbed.

It pains Archer to see his friend so distraught. He understands exactly what it feels like to lose one’s parents, to wish you had something of theirs to hold onto. When his father died, the family soon had to flee, and there was nothing but the clothes on their backs to take with them. He had things of his mother’s back in Kirkwall, but all of those were left behind when, again, he had to run away from his life. He wishes he could tell Fletcher, just to make him feel not so alone.

“There might not be anything to take,” Archer says, finally breaking the bleak silence. “But _you’re_ something left over from your parents. You are the greatest thing they ever had…ever made. Keep that and your memories.”

Fletcher looks to his family’s remains and then back at Archer, nodding slightly.

“Good. Now, should we lay them to rest?” Archer asks.

“Yes,” Fletcher says. “I just-I haven’t figured out how.”

“Meaning?”

“They were Andrastian,” Fletcher explains. “Not overly devout, but believers nonetheless. While we’ve been at Skyhold, I’ve tried to find books about how to proceed with such things, but I don’t even know the Chant of Light; it’s the only song the Avvar don’t care to sing. And I don’t think your Maker would hear it from someone like me either way.”

Playing the part of a Trevelyan, Archer knows that he’s someone who should be able to recite the Chant forwards and backwards. But as himself, Archer has done his best not to learn it. The Hawkes were never religious, and it wasn’t something spoken of in his upbringing. The only real exposure to it he’s had has been with Anders, who, despite hating the Chantry, was Andrastian and found comfort in it.

Knowing that he isn’t going to be able to pull off helping Fletcher out in the way his parents’ might want, Archer suggests something else.

“I think what’s most important is to do what you feel is right, Fletcher. You said that you assist in sky burials, right? Maybe it’s more appropriate to send them off that way.” Archer turns to look at the skeletal remains. “Their son ended up being raised as an Avvar, and I’m sure they’d be proud of him and his culture.”

“The Lady should accept them,” Fletcher says quietly in a tone that sounds like he’s trying to convince himself more than just being a statement.

“As an Andrastian myself, I don’t think she or the Maker would mind. Better to have you all reunited when you die too.” Archer feels a bit sacrilegious lying this way. _But you never felt sacrilegious screwing your boyfriend in a Chantry confessional that one time in Orlais…_

“You’re wise, Inquisitor.”

“Sometimes,” Archer says with a smile.

Fletcher opens his satchel to pull out a few items: a leather-bound journal, a small wooden carving of a fox, and vial of blue sand. He carefully sets the journal and the fox next to his parents’ bones, and then he pours the sand at their feet. With a quick move of his right hand, fire emerges from his fingertips. He forces it towards the sand, and it harbors flames to illuminate the area.

Archer steps back as Fletcher starts to speak.

“Lady of the Sky. Goddess of the sky. Goddess of death. Take to you the souls of the lost.”

Fletcher pulls out his dagger and unwraps his left hand. He pierces the same place he had earlier in the day. With the spilt blood, he sprays the bones of his parents, and then he opens the Veil to allow the spirit back into it.

As the Veil closes, Fletcher speaks again.

“Take the soul of the mother. The soul of the wife. Take the soul of the father. The soul of the husband. Bind them to you. Carry them on the wind. Dear Lady, bring them home.”

The crescendoing call of birds grows almost deafening. Archer looks up and sees what has to be hundreds of ravens flying towards them. As they descend, he ducks and notices that Fletcher stands completely still, eyes only on the remains of his loved ones.

One after another, the birds pick up the bones in their talons. They then take flight and disappear through the trees.

“Maker,” Archer mutters.

“No,” Fletcher says, turning to him with a confident smile. “That was the Lady.”

~oOo~

After their return to Skyhold, Archer stops by Fletcher’s quarters to see if he’s alright. He’s pleased to see that, since the last time he’d been up there, the walls and roof have been renovated to keep the elements out.

“You settling back in alright, Fóstrisen?” Archer asks, leaning against the doorframe.

“I am,” Fletcher responds, lighting several candles with his fingertips. “Thanks again, really. I feel a new-found sense of pride being an Avvar, adopted or not. But I’m glad to be here, and I hope to be a good representation of my people.”

Archer smiles. “Any time. I really like you.” He shakes his head quickly. “Like you around, you know?” It’s a good save. After all, the warrior doesn’t have romantic feelings for the other man. They’re friends. Just friends. _Right?_

It may be the dimly lit room, but Archer thinks he sees a bit of disappointment in Fletcher’s face as he nods in response.

“Anyway, goodnight,” Archer says, turning to leave. Just a moment passes before he turns back. “Hey…I meant to ask.”

“Yes?” Fletcher asks, taking a step towards him in the doorway.

“We recently found your clan’s leader throwing goats at the wall.”

Fletcher’s brow furrows. “Yes. And that is not a question.”

“I guess I just meant, what was that about?” Archer asks.

“You insulted his honor and destroyed his son. Goat’s blood had to be spilt.”

Archer blinks. _Oh, of course._ “I’ll try not to piss off any more Avvar then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to anonymouscatastrophe405 for letting me borrow her boy, Fletcher. And thanks for outlining his companion piece for me to work off of!


	13. Chapter 13

Archer’s goal to keep the Avvar happy isn’t going well.

“You told me I could meet her!” Fletcher shouts, stomping around Archer’s room. “I don’t get why I can’t just go with you. Varric can go, sure. The Iron Bull is going so you have another swordsman. But why can’t _I_ be your mage?”

Archer is leaning against the wall opposite his bed, his arms crossed. The real reason that Fletcher isn’t invited on this mission is because he can’t risk the Champion of Kirkwall’s number one fan going on and on about him in front of Alistair Theirin, the Warden they’re planning on meeting in Crestwood. It’s going to be hard enough keeping the rest of the group out of earshot when the two of them are talking.

“First off, I told you I’d _try_ to grant you a meeting with her. And you aren’t going to be my mage because Dorian asked first,” Archer lies. “He and Bull are apparently getting close and they want to spend more time together.” That part isn’t a lie.

Fletcher groans and throws his hands up in frustration. “This may be my last opportunity to meet the Champion’s sister, and you’re ruining it because they want to fuck in drab old Crestwood?! It's gross and wet and-and this is ridiculous!”

“You’re acting like a child.”

“You’re acting like an arse!” the mage spits back.

Archer rushes forward at him, grabs his wrists and pushes him back against a wall. The mage clenches his fists, and Archer, for the first time, is close enough to make out the small rune symbols tattooed into his knuckles. He feels Fletcher’s breath on his skin and expects the mage to push back, but he’s nothing but relaxed except for the intense glare from his eyes. They’re lighter than Archer remembers. Hazel, almost like honey. _Almost like Anders’._

“You’ll meet her,” Archer says, lingering too long. He closes his eyes for a few seconds, and then he lets go of the other man. He takes one step back. “I promise, you’ll meet her when we’re back.”

Fletcher slowly lowers his arms and stares at the other man. After a moment, he nods and then quickly leaves the room.

~oOo~

Crestwood is proving to be every bit as drab as Fletcher had said. It’s a small step up from the Fallow Mire, but Archer can hardly wait to turn back just moments after stepping foot into the dreary fishing village. The air is thick with fog, the sun is hidden by robust grey clouds, and the only thing louder than the distant thunder is the shriek of possessed corpses as they crawl out of the town’s lake.

After an hour of fighting through undead and closing up small rifts, Archer and his crew make their way to the location that Bethany had sent them. She made it to Crestwood a few days before the Inquisition headed out, making sure that Alistair and the Wardens were still here. As they approached a small cave mouth, Archer asks his companions to wait outside, needing to see to this himself.

“We really need to pick nicer spots for our reunions,” Archer says, slicking his rain-soaked hair back behind him as he enters the cave.

Bethany giggles. “Oh, come now, last we met in your lovely castle. Seemed like we needed to get back to the typical void-hole.”

Archer hugs her briefly and looks down the dimly lit cave passage. “He’s down there then?”

“No, I’m right here.” Out of the shadows walks Alistair Theirin, clad in typical Warden garb. He outstretches his right hand towards Archer. “I’m Alistair. You must be Inquisitor Trevelyan.”

Archer furrows his brow before taking the other man’s hand, shaking it firmly. The blond warrior is looking at him as though they’ve never met. Sure, their encounter in Kirkwall was exceptionally brief, and Archer has done what he can to alter his appearance, but he’s certain the Warden should know. Archer’s eyes dart over to his sister, and she ever-so-slightly shakes her head. _She didn’t tell him who I really am._

“Th-thanks for meeting us, Warden,” Archer says, pulling his hand back. “I’ve heard from Bethany here that the Wardens are having troubles of their own, but we’re appreciative of any help you can give us.”

“When Hawke and his sister killed Corypheus, the Wardens thought the matter resolved. But archdemons don’t die from simple injury. I feared Corypheus might have the same power, so I started to investigate.” Alistair turns his back to the Hawkes, walking several paces away. “I found hints, but no proof. And then, not long after, every Warden in Orlais began to hear the Calling.”

Archer is thankful that the other man has turned away because he knows he’s not controlling his expression. _The Calling._ Archer is horrified by these words. As a boy, he never received any formal schooling, always having to learn from his parents while they were on the run. He knew so little of the Wardens, and all he knew he learned late in his days in Kirkwall from Anders. The mage didn’t like to talk much about his time with the Wardens, but he had been forced to recount at least the most important details when they had travelled to the Deep Roads together for the second time.

Anders, like all Wardens, was tied to the darkspawn, and, one day he would hear a call, beckoning him back down into the Deep Roads. He would try to fight them, but, ultimately, he would meet his doom when he was too tired to carry on.

Learning that the man he loved with all of his heart would be taken from him in such a horrifying manner destroyed a part of Archer that, to this day, he’s never gotten back. But what’s even worse right now is not knowing where Anders is. What if he had been in Orlais at the time? Or, if he wasn’t there, what if he was somewhere that he could hear it still? No, surely, he was too far north, away from danger.

Archer shakes his head. Anders is always around danger. Anders _is_ danger.

Bethany can see her brother’s panic. She speaks to break his silence. “So, every Warden in Orlais is hearing this now?”

“Yes,” Alistair says, turning back towards them. “I think Corypheus caused this, somehow. If all the Wardens die, who will stop the next Blight? That’s what has them so terrified.”

“Thanks to the Calling, Corypheus has them scared…and they’re playing right into his hands.” Bethany crosses her arms. “They all think they’re going to die, and it’s not even real.”

Archer finds himself struggling to stand still. He shifts from foot to foot. “You said all of the Wardens were hearing the Calling. Does that include you?” _And Anders?_

“Unfortunately, yes,” Alistair says, slightly hanging his head. “When I’m talking or fighting, I can almost ignore it. But, whenever things are quiet, I can hear it. It’s like a song you can’t get out of your head. Damned annoying, frankly.”

And there it is. If Alistair is hearing it, it’s safe to say Anders is as well. The last time he heard it, he handled it so poorly. After everything that’s happened, Archer isn’t sure if he’d be able to deal with it better or worse. He tries to shake his fears. _He’s not yours to worry about any more._

“How can Corypheus even do this, Alistair?” Bethany asks, again speaking when her brother cannot.

“Corypheus is tied to the Blight, not just a product of it. Wardens are connected to the darkspawn, too. That’s how he seems able to control Wardens who get too close to him. And that’s likely what he’s doing here as well, somehow.” Alistair purses his lips. “Warden-Commander Clarel proposed some drastic things in a last-ditch effort to resist him.”

“Like what?” Archer asks.

“Blood magic,” Alistair admits. “She wants to prevent further Blight before we die. I protested, and that’s why I’m here. But now the Wardens gather in the desert, in the Western Approach, in an old Tevinter ritual tower.” He starts to walk towards the cave mouth. “I’m going to investigate. I could use some help.”

“Alistair, wait,” Archer calls. Bethany reaches out for her brother’s shoulder, trying to stop what she knows is coming next. But the older Hawke moves too quickly.

“I-we’ll help you. I just wanted to ask you a few questions.”

Alistair turns around and crosses his arms. “Let me guess, you want to ask about my time with _him_?” He shrugs. “I’m not exactly the man I was alongside the Hero of Ferelden, but we did have our glory days. Taint, darkspawn, broodmothers…” He shudders.

“He’s pretty much like all the stories you’ve heard. But it’s been so long since I’ve seen him. After killing the archdemon, we discovered that the Warden’s end might not be as set in stone as we thought. So, he’s searching for a way to end the curse.”

Archer desperately clings to the hope in his words. “I had heard that the mage, Anders, the one who-“

Alistair cuts him off. “The one who blew up the Kirkwall Chantry and started the mage/Templar war?”

Everything in Archer wants to yell out, correct the man before him. Anders never started the war; the Chantry did when they decided to be neutral. Circles in other countries had already started to rebel. Anders simply nudged the southern mages to finally stand up for themselves. But he can’t say that.

“Yes,” he answers through clenched teeth. “I had heard that Anders knew the Hero of Ferelden. Did you know him as well?” He briefly looks over at Bethany who has her left palm against her forehead in disbelief.

“No.” Alistair straightens up. “I’d left the Hero’s side at that point. But, in talking with mutual friends, I know that he didn’t much approve of the mage’s decisions back then, and I would be hard-pressed to say he approves of them in more recent years.”

“I think it’s time for us to head west,” Bethany says quickly, ensuring the conversation can’t carry on. She looks sternly at her brother. “You lead, Inquisitor.”

Archer huffs. _How is it that my baby sister is always the adult between us?_


	14. Chapter 14

With no time to waste, Alistair immediately sets out for the Western Approach. Bethany, Archer, and his Inquisition group also head that way, but, knowing that it will take the better part of a week at minimum to get to their destination, they decide to first stop back at Skyhold for a night’s rest and an opportunity to restock their supplies.

Though they make it back in the middle of the day, Archer excuses himself from his company and heads straight up to his quarters. He’s still suffering from their time in Crestwood. The only thing in the world that could add to the sullenness of his mood after talking to Alistair was his twin damp socks. As soon as he’s got some privacy, he strips himself of his armor and underclothes. With everything neatly put away, his nude body falls back onto his bed.  

He starts to daydream.

_“Really, Archer? You’re soaking wet!” Anders scoots over to his side of the bed, making room for Archer. “Ugh, and you smell just like Dog after he’s been out in the rain.”_

_“I have been out in the rain. Took my clothes off at least,” Archer says. He props himself up on his elbow as he lays on his side, facing the other man. “I’m terribly chilled. If only I had someone hot to warm me up.”_

_The mage raises an eyebrow. “I can always throw a fireball at you, Love.”_

_“Or,” suggests Archer, “you could use that beautiful mouth of yours.”_

_Anders rolls his eyes, but he can’t help smiling all the while. He leans over to kiss Archer’s lips, a warm, ethereal heat shared between them. Before Archer can say a word, Anders pushes him over onto his back, knowing that a mere kiss wasn’t exactly what he had in mind. The mage kisses a line down from his navel to his cock, already hard from anticipation. Carefully, he takes the base into his hand and dips down to encompass it with his mouth._

_The warmth is overwhelming, and Archer is reminded instantly that he’d been so stupid not to have only sought out mage companions before starting his relationship with Anders. But, really, the magic wasn’t just in those lips or hands or the mana flowing through his veins; it was in that beautiful, tormented mind and soul. Archer was lucky to have him, even if only for a short while._

_Archer looks down at the other man, his head bobbing up and down on him. He closes his eyes, briefly taking a moment to groan. When he opens them again, he notices that it’s not blond hair he sees; it’s red. The mage looks up at him, and it’s Fletcher, not Anders. His heart beats quicker, racing with excitement._

His mind deep in fantasy, Archer works his cock in hand. His eyes are closed tight to keep it all right in his mind’s eye. He pumps up and down, working harder than he should because he knows he’s just going to end up sore. But the soreness doesn’t matter when the heat wells up in his belly, deep and spreading down and down until he knows he’s there. In his head he hears pounding. It’s all too much.

“I’m going to,” he whispers, voice rising. “Oh, Maker...come!”

“Bloody void, Inquisitor!”

Archer’s eyes shoot open, and he sits up quickly. He looks over at the stairway to his right, and he sees Fletcher. Before the mage promptly averts his gaze, Archer notices that his cheeks are nearly as red as his hair.

“I-what are you doing in here?” Archer realizes that his come-covered hand is still gripping his softening member. He grabs the duvet cover at the foot of the bed and throws it over himself, discreetly trying to wipe himself clean of his own mess.

Fletcher cautiously looks over at him, and breathes a sigh of relief when he sees the other man covered. “I knocked on your door, and you said ‘come’- oh shite. Oh shite, you meant you were...” He can’t even say it. He starts to laugh.

Archer can’t help but laugh, too, because Fletcher’s laugh is infectious. Cute, too. He’d be embarrassed if he had any shame.

He does want so badly to move on. It’s become unbearably lonely for Archer. But after being hurt by Anders, after being let down with Dorian, the thought of opening himself up to someone new is more than a little terrifying. This fantasy is the first he’s ever had of Fletcher, and the excitement is still palpable. Even so, he’s not sure if Fletcher has any interest in him. _At least not in me as Archer Trevelyan. If he knew the truth, he’d be all over me…_

Fletcher grips the railing next to him nervously, the laughter between them dying. “I wondered, Inquisitor. Can I please go with you and Lady Hawke? I know you leave in the morning, and I doubt she’ll return here after you deal with the Wardens.”

“No,” Archer answers. Quickly, he raises his hand to keep Fletcher from protesting. “You can’t go with us because Alistair told us that the Wardens are resorting to blood magic. I’m not sure what all they’re doing, but, with you already being a blood mage, I think there’s a significant risk of you being harmed or controlled in some manner that we can’t get you out of. I’m not willing to risk that. You’re too important to us.” He bites the inside of his cheek. “To me.”

Fletcher blushes again briefly, and he, finally, walks up the last few steps drawing closer to the bed.

“I think, however,” Archer continues, “that tonight would be best opportunity for you to meet her.”

“Really?!” Fletcher asks enthusiastically. “Thank you, Inquisitor!”

“Really. Just keep in mind that it’s got to have been one difficult job being the Champion’s sister. Tread lightly. And you’ve seen my dick now…you can probably just call me ‘Archer’.”

Fletcher unconsciously bounces with excitement on the balls of his feet. “I-no I understand completely, Archer. I’ll be respectful, I swear to the Lady.” He quickly moves forward and kisses Archer’s cheek before hurrying back to the staircase. “I’ll ask Varric to take me to her. You keep –“ He looks back at him on the bed. “Keep having fun.”

Archer blinks a few times as he holds a few fingertips to his cheek. It feels warm.

~oOo~

“You could have warned me about the Avvar boy.” Bethany’s horse trots up next to Archer on his hart (one he reluctantly chose over an equid considering the length of their journey) as the group sets out for the Western Approach. As before, Archer is joined by Varric, The Iron Bull, and Dorian who are trailing behind and out of earshot.

“He’s not a boy,” Archer corrects. “He’s twenty-six. That’s only four years younger than you.”

“And ten years your junior.”

Archer rolls his eyes. _Just a little bit larger than the age difference between Anders and myself._ “Meaning what?”

“Meaning nothing.” She’s smirking. “He’s got eyes for the Champion, I think.”

“Yeah, sorry about that. He was very eager to meet you. Did it go alright?”

She nods. “It did. He’s just fascinated because of Varric’s book. He asked a little bit about our childhood, and then a lot about the Circle. He’s a nice boy.”

“ _Man_.”

“ _Man_ ,” she says with a giggle. “He looks up to you too, you know. Well, Trevelyan you.”

“Really? What did he say about me?” In his enthusiasm, rather than turning his head towards her, he shifts his arms as well, guiding the hart right into Bethany’s horse. The bay gelding bucks up, angered by the intrusion. Bethany holds her left hand between the horse’s ears, and she emits a bright purple light, instantly calming him.

“Sorry…”

“You alright, Sunshine?” Varric calls from behind them.

“Everything’s fine, Varric, thanks!” Bethany calls, turning her head back slightly. She turns to her brother. “You’re ridiculous, brother. If you like him, say something. A handsome _man_ like that won’t stay single for long.”


	15. Chapter 15

When the group makes it to the Western Approach, Archer is horrified by what he sees. A radical mage named Erimond has taken hold in an old Tevinter temple. Under his control are a number of Warden mages, all of which have performed blood magic rituals to summon demons out of the Fade. These mages bind to the demons. He explains that he and Warden-Commander Clarel plan to march into the Deep Roads to kill the Old Gods before they can rise like Corypheus. But nothing this man says is convincing. Blood mage or not, no Warden would need to bind to a demon to fight off the Old Gods. If Archer can be thankful for anything, it’s that he chose to leave Fletcher behind.

After Archer demands that the Wardens be released, Erimond admits that he’s working with Corypheus. He tries to attack, pulling at the anchor on the warrior’s left hand. But Archer is stronger than him, and he violently throws him back. Erimond flees, but not before turning the Wardens on their group. The Inquisition, alongside Bethany and Alistair, take up arms, fighting until every one of them has been destroyed.

“How could the Wardens be so stupid?” Bethany asks as she leans on her staff, winded from the fight.

“Clearly, they were desperate,” Alistair states.

Bethany shakes her head. “I’m tired of everyone’s excuses. Everyone has a story they tell themselves to justify bad decisions.”

“I believe I know where the Wardens are. Erimond fled in that direction,” Alistair says, pointing to the northeast. “There’s an abandoned Warden fortress that way. Adamant.”

“Well then,” Archer says. “We’ve got no time to waste.”

Bethany stops him. “Inquisitor, you need to stay here while we scout out Adamant. I suggest you send word back to Skyhold. We may need backup.”

Archer looks pleadingly at his sister. She’s the only family he has left, and the thought of her being in danger, especially with mages being forced into blood magic, burned at his core. He has never forgiven himself for her being found out and forced to the Kirkwall Circle while he was away from her, and he knows he can’t survive something like that happening to her again.

“We’ll be well,” she says, directly to him. “Meet us there in four night’s time.”

~oOo~

Waiting for the days to pass was a nightmare. Archer and his three companions wandered around the Western Approach, closing rifts and slaying dragons. The group tried to pass some time by playing Wicked Grace, and The Iron Bull and Dorian made no small effort to keep their budding sex life secret. But, between all this, Archer could do little else but worry. They had sent word back to Skyhold, but they also sent a few Inquisition scouts behind his sister and Alistair. The rational part of his mind knew that he would be the first to know if they had been attacked. But the irrational part couldn’t stand the lack of news.

When the fourth day finally came, the group heads out as the sun started to set, determined to meet up with Alistair and Bethany come nightfall. After a mere hour of travel, the group finds their way to Adamant, a large fortress with a war waging around it.

“We were supposed to hear if something happened!” Archer growls.

“I think the Inquisition forces were a little too busy to get back to us,” Dorian states.

There’s an arsenal of Inquisition archers splaying out hundreds of arrows against a group of Wardens and demons. Up on the battlements, Archer can see Cullen rallying soldiers to keep pressing forward into the hold. The warrior is surprised by how many men and woman have made it here. Even if travelling by boat, the only way they could have gotten here so quickly is if they’d started out right after Archer’s crew had set out. As much as he couldn’t stand the ex-Templar, he was thankful he’d been mindful enough to send in their troops.

Archer watches the fight for a few moments before rushing in. His greatest fears plague his mind as he pulls the greatsword off of his back. _I will raze this entire fortress if anyone so much as looked at my sister wrong._

The group fights their way through dozens of demons and Wardens until they make their way just shy of the inner Keep. It’s there that they find Warden-Commander Clarel, a wiry woman who makes every excuse imaginable as to why she is allowing this abomination to take place. Archer pleads with her, desperately trying to convince her that Corypheus is back and that Erimond is merely trying to bind her Wardens to him.

Erimond, in his rage, summons Corypheus’ archdemon, and Clarel immediately sees the light. A fight breaks out between her and Erimond. As the two mages wage war, Archer, the Inquisition, and the remaining Wardens fight off hundreds of demons. As soon as Archer and his group make it just short of Clarel’s aid, the Warden-Commander is grabbed by the archdemon and is thrown to the side. In her last dying action, she attacks the dragon, throwing it into the distance and down into a tear in the Veil. In all of the commotion, Archer, Bethany, Alistair, and Archer’s three companions are all caught up in the force, falling down to their doom.

~oOo~

Archer falls.

He falls and falls for what seems like hours, head first into the unknown. He screams, but no sound escapes his lips. He reaches out, but he feels nothing. He falls forever until, finally, he stops.

Flipping over once, Archer shoots back up. His head hurts, pounds for the first time since closing the breach. He reaches up, and, finally, he feels his gauntlet touch the ground. Immediately, he drops head first onto rock-hard ground. The world turns right side up, and Archer realizes where he is.

The Fade.

He’s been here twice before, but it’s not the same. The first time he was in the Fade, it was a strange mirror of the Gallows, a troubled boy’s dream. The second, he was fighting for his life, reaching out for what many believed to be Andraste.

Archer looks around at the cavernous expanse. There are stone halls and cliffs and rocks are falling…up? It looks something like the insides of Adamant if it had been left to ruin for centuries. The only thing similar this time to his earlier experiences in the Fade is the gray-green hue and the fear that he feels.

The one positive to this is that he’s not alone. His friends are there, as are Alistair and Bethany. The only two members of the party who don’t seem scared are Bethany and Dorian, but of course it’s because they’ve been here a thousand times over. Never will he understand how mages can survive the nights in such a place.

“In our world, the rift the demons came through was nearby. In the main hall. Can we escape the same way?” Alistair asks.

Archer looks up and sees a green tunneling cloud in the sky, seemingly the only way out of this living nightmare.

“It sounds like our best option,” Archer says. He continues to look up. “Let’s go.”

The group cautiously makes their way up and through the Fade until Archer stops short. Varric, who is right behind him, crashes into his taller friend. Taking a step back, he looks in front of Archer and sees why.

“By the Maker, could that be…?”

“I greet you, Warden and Inquisition.” Divine Justinia V stands before them. She looks directly at Archer. “I am here to help you.” The words ‘Champion’ nearly form on her lips, but, to the warrior’s relief, they do not.

“I thought you died,” Archer says. She has to be dead, he knows. Whether or not she is a demon or spirit is a question he should be asking, but his fear of this unknown is paralyzing him.

“You do not remember what happened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, Inquisitor?” She doesn’t allow him to answer. “The memories you have lost were taken by the demon that serves Corypheus. It is the nightmare you forget upon waking. It feeds off the memories of fear and darkness, growing fat upon the terror. The false Calling that terrified the Wardens into making such grave mistakes? Its work.”

“Can you help us get out of here?” Archer asks.

She nods. “That is why I am here. When you entered the Fade at Haven, the demon took a part of you. Before you do anything else, you must recover it.”

Several spirits present themselves before Archer, and he carefully approaches them to recover what happened. Clear as day, the warrior is taken back to that moment so many months ago. He sees the Divine, captured by rogue Wardens. He sees himself walking in on them as Corypheus holds out an orb to her. As the Divine resists, Archer grabs the orb. The anchor forms on his hand, and Corypheus is weakened. As the Temple crumbles, he seems himself climbing and climbing, fighting his way forward. The figure is before him, the one who saved him.

Archer turns around and sees the Divine once more. His head is still pounding, worse than before.

“Corypheus intended to rip open the Veil, use the anchor to enter the Fade, and throw open the doors of the Black City. Not for the Old Gods, but for himself,” she explains. “When you disrupted his plan, the orb bestowed the anchor upon you instead.”

“So, this is, what? An accident? A random ricochet in the middle of a fight?” Archer yells. “Has my entire bloody life been nothing but one big shiteshow where I just show up at the wrong place at the wrong time?!”

“Regardless, Inquisitor. Has anything really changed?”

Of course it hadn’t. Never being a believer, Archer never truly thought there was any greater meaning to this entire event. As his fake self, he was supposed to believe. But, for a brief moment his real self dared to hope that he wasn’t a joke to the universe.

“You must make haste to try to escape,” the Divine tells him. “I will prepare the way.”

As she disappears, Bethany turns angrily towards Alistair. “Those were Grey Wardens holding the Divine prisoner.”

“I assume he took over their minds, as we’ve seen him do before,” Alistair attempts to explain. “Let’s get out of this wretched place and argue after we escape.”

~oOo~

As they press forward, Archer suddenly falls to his knees. His head feels as though it’s about to burst. He grips it, wails out, and, suddenly it stops. There’s a ringing in his ears for a brief moment, and then it’s followed by a deep, troublesome voice.

“Did you think you mattered, Hawke?”

It’s Corypheus. Archer looks around, wondering if anyone else can hear what he hears. But in all the fear he starts to feel, he finds himself unable to see anything around him but blackness.

“Did you think anything you ever did mattered?” Corypheus continues. “You couldn’t even save your city. How could you expect to strike down a god? You’re a failure. Your family died knowing it. Your loved one used you and left you. You. Are. Worthless.”

Archer screams and screams with all of his might. There’s silence and the darkness around him fades, and he can suddenly sense everything around him. Bethany kneels before him, gripping the sides of his face between the palms of her hands. He pants heavily as she hears him call his name over and over. He wants to pull her against him, hug her tight, but then everything around him fades again.

He sees himself, back in Haven. He climbs and climbs, forever forward, fighting to rid himself of the demons below him. Ahead he sees the brilliant white figure - only this time, the white light dies out to reveal the truth - that figure was never Andraste. Never Anders. It’s the Divine. Archer watches himself escaping the Fade just as she’s taken to her own death.

“It was you,” he mutters, looking forward.

The Divine – the spirit of her – stands silent and still.

“The Divine died because of the Wardens,” Bethany sneers. Archer has never seen her so angry. Quite frankly, it frightens him.

“What, again? It wasn’t their fault! You know it’s because they were under Corypheus’ control,” Alistair reminds her. “We should focus on getting out of here. We can talk about this when we’re back at Adamant.”

“Back to Adamant? The place crawling with Warden-summoned demons?”

“S-so what are you saying?” Alistair asks, arms crossed over his chest. “Terrible actions are only justified when they’re _your_ terrible actions? You and your brother tore Kirkwall apart and started the mage rebellion.”

Archer steps forward, but Bethany pushes him back. “To protect innocent mages, not madmen drunk on blood magic.” She sighs. “Even without the influence of Corypheus, the Wardens go too far. They need to be checked.”

Alistair looks to Archer, asking for him to step in.

“This debate can wait until we’re out of danger,” Archer says.

In the distance, they hear shrieking. A horrific, nightmarish creature resembling a thousand-legged spider descends upon them. The group races forward, desperate to find a way around it. They stop short, not knowing what to do.

“Go,” Bethany begs. “I’ll cover you.”

“No,” Alistair responds. “You were right, the Wardens caused this mess. A Warden must-”

Archer moves between them. “Are you two insane? I can’t let either of you sacrifice yourselves!” He looks right at Bethany, pleading silently to her. “I’ll stay. _I_ have to stay.”

“Don’t be mad, Inquisitor,” Dorian says. He grabs out for Archer’s wrist and hoists it up, making the anchor eye-level with the warrior. “You’re the only one who can stop Corypheus. If you stay, you die. We all die.”

Archer knows that this is true. He looks between Bethany and Alistair, and he’s selfish. He has to be selfish. No matter how much she would want to stay, Archer cannot lose the only person he has bound to him still. Slowly and somewhat regretfully, he turns towards Alistair.

“Alistair…”

“Inquisitor,” Alistair says, voice breaking slightly. “It has been an honor.” He runs towards the beast, sword in hand as the rest of them make their escape.

Out of the Fade, Archer raises his anchor and instantly destroys all of the demons with a stream of green energy flowing from it. The crowed of Wardens and Inquisition soldiers cheer, and the archdemon quickly takes flight. The Wardens surrender to the Inquisition, and Archer tells them how Alistair died for their misgivings. He orders them to help the Inquisition, determined to have them redeem themselves.

As the forces start to pick up and disperse, Archer finds himself weak. His headache is nothing but a dull roar now, and it’s fading as he sits back against a piece of crumbling wall.

“I’m proud of you, brother.”

Archer looks up to see his sister smiling weakly down at him. He shakes his head. “It was supposed to be me.”

“How can you even say that?” she asks, her smile quickly fading.

He pulls off his gauntlets and sets him to his side. “Do you remember the day that Carver died?”

“You did not just ask me that.” Now she’s frowning.

Archer shakes his head. “Just listen. The day he died, the day I failed him…we were stranded, essentially left for dead. And then a bloody dragon lady comes out of nowhere to help us under one condition. We had to take her in a damned amulet out to the mountains. Don’t you remember what she said?” He remembers her words and recites them exactly.

_“We stand upon a precipice of change. The world fears the inevitable plummet into the abyss. Watch for that moment…and when it comes, do not hesitate to leap. It is only when you fall that you learn whether you can fly.”_

Bethany stares at him, as though she’s unsure if she should understand what he’s getting at.

“ _That_ was the moment, Beth. I was supposed to leap, but I didn’t! Alistair is going to die because of me. Just like Carver and mother.”

“You couldn’t stay behind!” Bethany barks at him. In her frustration, she wraps him in stone, mouth and all so he can’t speak until she’s done. “If you had stayed, the rest of the world would be doomed because only you and that stupid hand can fix things. And you don’t even know for sure that this was what she meant. Maybe you leapt when Anders destroyed the Chantry. Maybe you leapt when you closed the breach in Haven. Maybe you haven’t even bloody leapt yet because it wasn’t time yet.”

Bethany paces back and forth before she falls to her knees in front of him. “Where are you, brother? Where is that sarcastic, ridiculous brother of mine who couldn’t go five seconds without making a joke out of everything?”

_He died when Anders left!_

“Maybe now is when you make your leap, Archer. You’ve fallen a million times over, so don’t hesitate to do it again. Find your happiness and fly.” She swipes her hand towards the left, and the stone crumbles into pebbles around the warrior.

“Archer!”

Both Archer and Bethany turn their gaze towards the voice. Fletcher rushes over towards them and stops just short. Archer jumps to his feet.

“Oh thank the Lady you’re alright! I know you didn’t want me to come, but I did, and Cullen said you were in the Land of Dreams… the Fad-“

Archer cuts him off with a kiss so hard and unexpected that they both fall down, Fletcher on his back and Archer on top of him. The warrior pulls back, breath shaky. Their eyes lock for only a moment before Fletcher pushes his head forward to kiss him again.

_It’s only when you fall that you learn whether you can fly._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story is officially 100% written and the last 33 chapters are finishing up being beta-read for me. 
> 
> I want to thank everyone who is reading, especially those of you who leave me feed back. I hope you're ready for the rest of this crazy ride. It's for sure the best thing I've ever written, and I'm thrilled to share the rest with y'all.


	16. Chapter 16

Not wanting to get in the way of the unexpected, yet budding romance between Archer and Fletcher, Bethany opted to start her journey from Adamant as soon as she could. Archer excused himself from the younger mage so he could properly say goodbye to his sister away from prying and possibly suspicious eyes.

Bethany’s plan is to head towards Weisshaupt in the Anderfels, the fortress that serves as headquarters for the Grey Wardens. She plans to go there to let the Wardens know about the death of Warden Commander Clarel and of Alistair bravely remaining in the Fade. Though not a Warden herself, Bethany feels it fitting for her to continue investigating the corruption among the ranks and to make sure that Corypheus isn’t still planning to use any more high-ranking Wardens.

After a brief goodbye and many thanks, Archer leaves Bethany’s side to find Fletcher among the rest of the remaining Inquisition crew. Nearly all of his companions had made the journey to aid in the fight with only Cole and Solas remaining at Skyhold. Three quarters of the Inquisition’s army had shown, and now a third of them lay slain from battle. Exhausted from the events of the day, Archer plops down on the ground right next to Fletcher.

“I was terrified when I learned you’d fallen through the Veil,” Fletcher says, staring into a small fire he’d just lit. “You’re no mage, so the Fade is no place for you. But to physically walk in it? I can only imagine the horrors you faced.”

Archer starts to unbuckle his heavy chest plate, and he sets it to his side so he can get more comfortable. He’s been to the Fade far more times than any non-mage should, and each time has been more terrifying than the last. But this isn’t something he can tell Fletcher. He can’t really tell Fletcher anything. Whatever this is between them is based on lies already, and it’s a thought that scares him. Opening up to someone else - someone who is willing to reciprocate - is terrifying. Far scarier than the Fade.

“Honestly, Fletcher, one of the scariest things was not knowing if I’d get out. Get back to you to tell you how I feel.” It isn’t entirely true, but it wasn’t wrong either. He’s grown quite fond of the younger man.

“And how do you really feel?”

Archer turns his head to look at him. The firelight dances upon Fletcher’s pale skin making him all red – hair, skin, and lips. _Those lips…_

“What?” Archer asks with a smile. “The kiss didn’t say it all?”

“Not when I have it on good authority that you’ve been kissing Dorian too.”

Archer frowns. “That was weeks and weeks ago, before you and I really started to get to know each other. And besides, apparently, he and I are distant cousins, so it doesn’t count.”

“I think it still counts.” Fletcher’s trying to hold back a laugh.

“Whether it counts or not, I’m not interested in him. I can’t date someone with better facial hair than I have.”

Archer watches Fletcher run his hand over his own jawline. The man really isn’t _that_ young, but he doesn’t look like he could grow a full beard to save his life.

The warrior waits for Fletcher’s hand to drop back to his side on the ground, and he moves to take it in his. “I like you quite a lot. You’re handsome and talented and impossibly interesting to me,” he admits. “But if I’m being honest…I’m scared.”

Fletcher looks down at their hands and smiles before looking back at the other man. “You never seem afraid of much.”

“I am though,” Archer says. “I guess I can’t be as heroic as your beloved Champion.”

“You really should read the book because it doesn’t sound like you know anything about him,” Fletcher says.

The irony isn’t lost on Archer.

“I think the Champion was scared all the time,” Fletcher continues. “Varric writes him being silly and sarcastic in the most horrible of situations. I think only someone who was afraid would act in such a way. Hiding behind the humor when the only other logical thing to do would be to run or cry.”

It hits Archer just how much he has changed since Kirkwall. That description was exactly him – sarcastic to the core, especially when it wasn’t appropriate. For a man who spent most of his time in horrible situations, he had to have a coping mechanism. There was no ability to run from his family or friends or responsibilities. There was no time to step back and cry. _Make a joke and get on with it._

But his experiences have torn most of the humor out of him. He wants that joy back. He wonders if Fletcher can grant it to him.

“I’m afraid of getting hurt,” Archer says after a moment of figuring out how to put it in terms his bastard of a bastard self should feel. At the very least, he thinks Trevelyan and Hawke at least have enough parallels to make it seem believable.

“I’ve not had much opportunity to be with someone else,” he continues. “Because of my family and the non-traditional way I fit into it, I’ve had to be careful with myself and my feelings. I’m a noble, and I’m supposed to find some noble girl to settle with.” He shrugs. “It’s not that I don’t find women attractive, I do. I just – I find myself wanting male companionship more. And being among the nobility, at least in my more impressionable years, I found that most other guys just wanted to tryst and then call it quits, feelings aside.”

Fletcher squeezes his hand and turns his body towards Archer to get a better view of him. “I’m scared too. Lowlander relationships are nothing like Avvar ones.”

“How are they different?”

“The only point of a relationship is to procreate and bring new blood into the clans,” Fletcher explains. “It’s not about attractions or feelings. You just kidnap a bride, stay together for the knot time, and then you part ways.”

Archer blinks and his lips part. Unconsciously, he pulls his hand away from Fletcher just a little. “I’m sorry, you do what?”

“It’s very different, I understand.” Fletcher looks a bit hurt. It’s clear he’s proud of his culture, oddities and all. “When a man comes of age, he asks a clan elder of another clan if he may take one of their unwed women. After an agreement has been reached, the man then takes the woman he has chosen, but it has to be done quietly and without being caught. Once he’s taken her back to his hold, his clan elder presents them with a rope with up to ten knots on it. The bride sings a hymn, one she has learned in adolescence, and the man attempts to untie as many knots as he can before the hymn is over. The amount he undoes equates to the number of years they spend together.”

“That sounds like a contract,” Archer says, still somewhat bewildered.

“It’s exactly that,” Fletcher says. “So little is permanent to us. We move holds, change wives, sometimes even change which gods we pray to.”

“You’re twenty-six,” Archer says.

“I am.”

“I don’t know much of your culture,” Archer admits,” but I would imagine you came of age some time ago.”

The mage nods. “I’ve been married once, if that’s what you’re reaching for. I was allowed to marry within my clan because I was an outsider. Seri and I were together for five years. She had been my friend for a few years, so we had a pleasant time together.”

“Five years…” A lot can happen in five years. “How many children-“

“None,” Fletcher says, cutting him off. “It wasn’t possible for us. The Avvar don’t have a word for it, but she’s what Bull calls ‘Aqun-Athlok’. Like Krem.”

“Oh,” Archer remarks, a bit surprised but not even slightly put out. “Did you know before you married her?”

Fletcher laughs. “Lady, yes. Would have been rather unexpected had I not, but I wouldn’t care either way. She actually asked me to marry her, and I was beyond happy to since I hadn’t had much interest in that aspect of the culture.

“And when it was over, I just focused on becoming an Augur. I was feeling pressure to try to grab a new wife, but then I found you.”

“Just promise you won’t try to kidnap me, and I think we’ll be good.” Archer smiles at him, and he wraps his arm around the mage, pulling him closer. “Let’s not be scared. Let’s just take it slow.”

“Alright,” Fletcher says, turning his head towards his new-found partner.

Archer turns too and kisses him softly. With a content sigh, Archer lays back, looking up at the stars.

Fletcher quickly follows suit after feeding the fire in front of them. He turns to his side and throws an arm over the warrior, cuddling him as close as their armor will allow.

In the distance, Varric spots them. He shakes his head.

“Maker’s breath, that man has a type.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fletcher's creator (anonymouscatastrophe405) has been having fun creating him and Archer in her Sims 3 game, so I wanted to share with everyone so you can get a better look at the boys.


	17. Chapter 17

In the passing weeks, Archer and Fletcher do their best to take it slow – at least slow by the latter’s standards of kidnapping one’s partner. Archer, on the other hand, has a track record of pining for three whole years before making a move, so this is quite a leap for him. Together, they make every effort to keep things progressing at a rational pace, all while ensuring it doesn’t interfere with their Inquisition duties.

Archer’s advisors quickly let him know just how displeased they are with the situation. Leliana’s main concern, which Archer shares, is that his entire existence as Inquisitor is based on a major lie which he must continue, even to his new boyfriend. Josephine is mostly worried about how it will look to the rest of the Inquisition and the outside world for the Inquisitor to be intimate with a barbarian blood mage. Cullen makes it extremely clear how uncomfortable he is with the Inquisitor taking a liking to ‘something one drop of blood away from becoming an abomination.’

Archer assures them all that he can manage. To the ladies, he promises that he will be respectful to Fletcher and tell him the truth when he can while remaining on his best behavior to keep up appearances. He gives Cullen a black eye and tells him to stay away from Fletcher unless he wants a matching set.

In keeping with causing great dismay to his advisors, Archer insists that Fletcher attends their next important appearance at the Winter Palace in Halamshiral, Orlais. With intel suggesting that an assassination attempt may be made against Empress Celene, the advisors believe it will take place during her scheduled peace talks with her cousin, Duke Gaspard, and the Dalish ambassador, Briala.

“You did this on purpose,” Archer hisses to Josephine. He’s yet to have a chance to exchange words with her about this, but he finally stands by her side by the front entrance of the Winter Palace. His three companions - Dorian, Fletcher, and The Iron Bull - are standing quietly at a nearby shrub, each looking more awkward than the last.

“I did what on purpose?” Josephine asks.

“This!” Archer barks as he pushes his hands down the length of his body, highlighting the red, blue, and gold military-style regalia he’s wearing. It’s not just on him either; all of the advisors and his companions are adorned in the same garb.

“ _This_ is what was designed for the Inquisition,” Josephine informs him while frowning. “It is both appropriate and functional.”

“It looks like a blind child designed it!”

“The red is very-“

Archer cuts Josephine off. “It couldn’t clash more with my ridiculously green hand or my boyfriend’s hair!”

“If you think for one second that any decision was made regarding your boyfriend-“ Josephine stops herself from finishing her sentence. “You’d best get over this right now, Inquisitor. We need you on your best behavior, and you’re already near starting a scene.”

“If you wanted me on my best behavior, you should have thought about my fashion sense. This is Orlais, after all!” Archer’s about to keep talking, but Fletcher walks over to him and puts his hand on his shoulder, silently asking him to stop.

“I want what is best for you and the rest of the Inquisition,” Josephine says stiffly. “You need to act your part tonight, _Trevelyan._ How you speak and act before the Court is a matter of life and death. It is no simple matter of etiquette and protocol. Every word, every gesture is measured and evaluated for weakness. _The Game_ is like Wicked Grace played to the death – you must never reveal your cards.

“When you meet the Empress, the eyes of the entire court will be upon you. You were safer staring down Corypheus.”

“You’re just full of joy and light this evening,” Archer says with a scoff.

Josephine quietly sighs before straightening her posture. “Everything will be fine. Just play your part.”

She looks over to Fletcher who has returned several paces back with Dorian and Bull.

“And Inquisitor,” she says, now whispering only to him. “Please, just…don’t make a show of your relationship. There’s a time and a place, and this is not it.”

Archer tries his best not to be insulted because he knows that she’s right.

~oOo~

After a bit of exploration around the grounds, Archer and his three companions enter the grand palace. It seems to meet Dorian’s expectations, annoys Bull, and completely overwhelms Fletcher. But it’s nothing out of Archer’s experience, as he’s been to Orlais multiple times.

He’s certainly a fan of flashy, showy garb, but the Orlesians know how to take it a few steps too far even for him. With everything gilded from pillars to staircases, Archer wonders how there’s any gold left in all of Thedas.

What’s more, the opulence of the Winter Palace is familiar to him as he’s been to the Imperial Palace to meet Empress Celene several years ago to discuss Chantry politics as the disruption in Kirkwall was starting to cause tensions in Orlais. Their meeting went incredibly poorly, as they had been unable to agree on how best to settle the mage and Templar dispute in Kirkwall. The Empress had felt it easiest that he side with the Chantry and the Templars, and Archer had felt it easiest to tell her to mind her own bloody business.

After arguing with her, Archer had quickly left with Anders, Fenris, and Isabela, and he hadn’t heard from her since.

Of course, this evening he will be meeting her ostensibly for the first time as Archer Trevelyan. He can only hope that she’s as thrown off by his altered appearance as some others have been.

In the grand hall, the group is met by a court herald who announces them as they enter to greet her Highness. One by one, the group slowly walks across an open hall towards Celene, the eyes of the Court watching their every move.

“And now presenting: Lord Inquisitor Trevelyan! Vanquisher of the rebel mages is Ferelden, crusher of the vile apostates of the mage underground! Champion of the blessed Andraste Herself!”

 _Champion of something,_ Archer thinks.

“Accompanying the Inquisitor,” the announcer continues, “Lord Dorian Pavus, member of the Circle of Vyrantium, son of Lord Magister Halward Pavus of Asariel.

“The Iron Bull, leader of the famed mercenary company Bull’s Chargers…as the name might imply.

“Fletcher Fóstrisen, apprentice Augur of the Avvar barbarians, mage and shaman to Skyhold.”

The disdainful murmurs from the crowd grow as Bull is announced, but they’re so loud as Fletcher is called in that the herald actually has to quiet the crowd. Archer feels anger rising inside of him . The Orleasans have never been anything but opinionated, but Archer doesn’t take kindly to his boyfriend being insulted.

Once the advisors are called in, Duke Gaspard introduces Archer to his cousin, Empress Celene, as well as his sister, Florianne. Even behind a mask, Archer can see Celene’s eyes studying him for several moments longer than she should. But she mentions nothing of their past, and gets on with pleasantries. The negotiations they have arrived for won’t be taking place for several more hours, and he and his group are given the opportunity to socialize and explore.

Away from the Empress, Archer sends Dorian and Bull off to collect intel on Briala while he and Fletcher meet with Leliana to discuss another angle to pursue.

“The best place to strike Celene is from her side,” Leliana suggests.

She walks over to a nearby bench, and Archer follows to sit next to her. Fletcher remains standing next to him.

“Empress Celene is fascinated by mysticism – foreseeing the future, speaking with the dead, that sort of rubbi-“ She looks over at Fletcher and stops before she insults him.

Archer says nothing of this, but blindly takes Fletcher’s hand in his, letting him know where he stands.

“I never got the impression that Celene was on the side of the mages,” Archer says.

He had spoken to his advisors alone before leaving Skyhold, telling them of his previous meeting with Celene several years prior. At the time, he’d been informed that she was relatively more neutral in her opinions of either side, but felt that the Templars had a better chance of maintaining control. To Archer, and certainly to Anders, neutrality was as good as siding with the Templars.

“Fascination does not equate with taking sides. She has an ‘Occult Advisor’ - an apostate who charmed the Empress and key members of the court as if by magic.” Leliana lowers her voice. “I’ve had dealings with her in the past. She’s ruthless and capable of anything.”

“How can Celene openly keep an apostate in the Imperial Court?” Archer asks.

“The Imperial Court has always had an official position for a mage,” Leliana responds. “Before now, it was little better than a court jester.”

Fletcher shifts on his feet, clearly growing more uncomfortable in his surroundings. Archer squeezes his hand to calm him.

“Vivienne was the first to turn that appointment into a source of real political power,” she continues. “When the Circles rebelled, technically every mage became an apostate. The word lost much of its strength.”

“I think it gained a new strength,” Archer adds. “Mages should be proud of their power and their freedom.”

Leliana stares at him but doesn’t dare respond given the third member of their private company. “This mage is worth investigating. And both leads point towards the guest wing. It’s a promising place to start.”

Once she leaves them, Archer stands and faces Fletcher.

“I don’t think I should have come,” Fletcher says, forlorn.

“Nonsense.” Archer says with a scoff. “You belong right here at my side. I’m really just sorry that it’s in these horrid outfits.”

Fletcher laughs. “I think you look good in red. But I think you’ll look better out of it.”

“Then I can’t wait to get us out of them even more,” Archer says with a smirk.

The two of them, in an attempt to keep it slow, have yet to have sex with one another. So far, it’s been all talking, cuddling, kissing, and playful touching. But the prospect of more is exciting to him.

He leans in to kiss Fletcher, but the mage pulls back. They aren’t alone by a long shot, dozens of members of the Court within sight. With them standing so close to each other, it’s to no surprise that there are far too many eyes glued to them.

“Let them look and judge,” Archer says in a hushed voice before kissing Fletcher. “I’m not ashamed of you.”

With all eyes still on them, the two men make their way through the halls of the palace towards the guest wing to see what they can discover about the Occult Advisor.

On their way, they search every nook and hallway for information and clues that might key them in on the situation. They listen to the nobles gossip, but they ultimately end up with little of value from the open spaces.

Lacking any better leads, Archer chooses to open the first unguarded door he can find.

His jaw drops at what he witnesses inside.


	18. Chapter 18

“Maker’s breath!” Archer gasps. He pulls Fletcher into the room with him and quickly shuts the door so no one else can dare wander in.

“Hey, boss,” The Iron Bull says nonchalantly. He’s on a bed reclined on his right side, completely stripped of his red Inquisition garb. Dorian lets go of Bull’s alarmingly huge cock, and he wipes his lips with the back of his left hand.

“Do you really think this is the place for…that?” Archer asks. He turns his gaze slightly, allotting the two men a bit of privacy so they can regroup and completely dress. In his peripheral vision, he can see Fletcher holding a hand over his mouth. He’s not sure if he’s trying to ward off a laugh or a scream.

Bull stands up and starts to get dressed. “Like the two of you weren’t coming in here to do the exact same thing.”

“While it’s a compelling idea, it’s not a correct one,” Fletcher responds. “We’re trying to work here. _Then_ we’ll see about that.”

“Fuck, Dorian…I didn’t realize you could unhinge your jaw,” says Archer, honestly more impressed with that more than anything. He had figured that Bull had to be large everywhere due to his over-sized Kossith body, but he’d momentarily been reminded of his work on the horse breeding farm back in Lothering and that was nothing short of terrifying.

Dorian smirks. “One of my many talents.”

To avoid further distraction, the group of them decide to head back out together to check both of the leads surrounding Celene’s potential assassination attempt. But before they can continue exploring, they hear bells, beckoning them back to the ballroom.

As they make their return, they turn into the palace’s vestibule where they’re stopped by a raven-haired mage in an elegant black and burgundy gown.

“I am Morrigan. Some call me advisor to Empress Celene on the matters of the arcane. You…have been very busy this evening. Hunting in every dark corner of the palace. Perhaps you and I hunt the same prey?”

Archer walks with her a few paces before stopping. He stares at her, suspiciously. “I don’t know. Do we?”

She laughs. “You are being coy.”

“I’m being _careful_ ,” he corrects.

“Not unwise, here of all places.” She turns to look at a noble staring up at them from the floor below. He’s visibly frightened of her, and he quickly scampers off.

Morrigan proceeds to tell Archer about a Tevinter man whom she slew after finding him sneaking around the palace. She found a key on his body, and she suspects he has something to do with the danger surrounding Celene. Though she hardly trusts the Empress, Morrigan assures him that she has no reason to assassinate her. And any such attempt would simply send accusing gazes in her direction first. She hands Archer the key that she had found, and she asks him to investigate further.

Archer is anything but convinced of this woman’s innocence, but his gut tells him this is the best lead he’s received all night. Carefully, he stows away the key before he heads into the ballroom.

~oOo~

After making another appearance at Court, the group finds time to explore the palace again with the intention of finding whatever can be opened by the key Morrigan provided. In their search, they find the corpse of an emissary belonging to the Council of Heralds, Venatori agents, and Briala.

This is the first opportunity that Archer has had to meet the Dalish ambassador, and the two of them discuss their suspicions surrounding the deceased emissary and Tevinter mages. All the clues point to the source of the assassination attempt being Gaspard.

Archer decides it’s time to confront Gaspard with this information, but he’s stopped by the Duke’s sister, Florianne, who asks him to dance. Knowing the Court is watching and that he has no choice but to accept, Archer decides that he will try to pry information from her while they dance.

It’s been years since Archer has danced. Before he and Anders had officially become a couple, dancing with the girls of Hightown was the only part of nobility that Archer enjoyed. He never went on his own accord, but the enjoyment he got out of it made all of his mother’s matchmaking attempts a little more bearable.

After he solidified a relationship with Anders, Archer could never convince him to go to a dance. Archer thrived on attention, but Anders hated it.

As Archer and Florianne dance in front of the entire Court of Halamshiral, the Grand Duchess warns him that tonight’s negotiations affect the fate of all Thedas and not just that of Orlais. She warns him not to trust anyone and informs him that the attack against Celene will occur soon if Gaspard is not stopped. In order to take him down, she tells Archer to speak to the captain of Gaspard’s mercenaries in the garden.

Once the dance is complete, Archer turns to Fletcher who stands on the walkway above. He wants so badly to dance with him, and he hopes that this mage will share his desire. But the time for continued frivolities isn’t now, as he has more information to uncover.

The group moves on and is able to unlock the door to the Empresses’ private quarters. Inside they search for clues, but their quest is cut short by the sounds of grunting.

“Can I go anywhere in this palace without seeing someone’s penis?” Archer asks as he stares at a nude man tied up on a bed. “I’m not complaining, it just seems highly irregular.”

“It’s not what it looks like!” the man states desperately.

“Look, I’m not unfamiliar with a good time. I’m not judging,” Archer says while smirking.

“Honestly, I would have preferred if it _were_ what it looks like,” the man continues. “The Empress led me to believe I would be…rewarded for betraying the Grand Duke. _This_ …was not what I hoped for.”

Dorian laughs. “Poor boy. I’d imagine not.”

The man, one of Gaspard’s soldiers, informs them that Celene made him give her information about Gaspard’s troops and their plans to move into the palace tonight. She’s well aware of the Duke’s desire to launch an assassination on her, and she does not plan to go down. Instead, she plans initiate her own trap to have him arrested for treason.

Archer convinces the man to testify against Celene. Later, after saving one of Briala’s people from a Venatori assassin, he also finds someone willing to testify against the Dalish ambassador. Now all he needs is someone willing to speak out against Gaspard, and he’ll have the three major players of the Orlesian Court in the palm of his hand.

Finally, his search takes him to where Florianne pointed him.

Instead of a mercenary captain, Archer and his group are met by Florianne herself, and they realize that they’re the ones who have fallen into a trap.

“Inquisitor! What a pleasure! I wasn’t certain you’d attend.” A small Fade rift is starting to open between the group and Florianne.

“Well, lucky for you,” Archer states, “I always end up exactly where I don’t want to be.”

“It was kind of you to walk into my trap so willingly,” she continues. “I was so tired of your meddling. Corypheus insisted that the Empress die tonight, and I would hate to disappoint him.”

“You’ve got to get your priorities straight,” Archer says while rolling his eyes. “Why would an Orlesian royal want to help Corypheus attack their own empire?”

“You think so small, Inquisitor. Why settle for an empire when Corypheus will remake the entire world?”

Archer frowns. “But why kill the Empress? What does Corypheus hope to achieve?”

“Celene’s death is a stepping stone on the path to a better world,” Florianne explains. “Corypheus will enter the Black City and claim the godhood waiting for him. We will cast down your useless Maker and usher in a united world, guided by the hand of an attentive god.

“All I need is to keep you out of the ballroom long enough to strike Celene down.”

Florianne turns her back on them and departs, but not before commanding her guards to kill Archer and his group.

Archer is quick to launch into action, disrupting the fade rift as his group fights off guards and demons alike until finally enough are defeated to allow him to close the rift entirely.

With no time to waste, the group rushes back into the palace and to the ballroom.

Archer finds himself facing a moral conundrum. His next choice will change the course of history for both Orlais and the rest of Thedas. No matter what happens, Florianne has to be stopped, but he has a choice in who retains control of the country. At this point, he is halfway considering a three-legged nug as a more appropriate leader.

Before the Empress can begin her speech at the peace negotiations, Archer decides to speak directly with Florianne rather than to allow her to attack or try to just detain her.

“We owe the Court one more show, your grace.”

Florianne turns to him, failing to hide her shock as she sees that he is still alive.

“The eyes of every noble in the empire are upon us, your grace. Remember to smile.” Archer can’t help but doing so himself as he walks closer to her. “This is your party. You wouldn’t want them to think you had lost control.”

Slowly, she backs away from him. “Who would not be delighted to speak with you, Inquisitor?”

“I seem to recall you saying, ‘All I needed was to keep you out of the ballroom long enough to strike.’ When your archers failed to kill me in the garden, I feared you wouldn’t save me this last dance.” Archer walks around her as he talks, noticing that Empress Celene is watching them from a mezzanine above.

“It seems so easy to lose your good graces. You even framed your brother for the murder of a council emissary,” Archer continues, loud enough for the Court to hear him. “It was an ambitious plan. Celene, Gaspard, the entire Council of Heralds…all of your enemies under one roof.”

“This is very entertaining, but you do not imagine anyone _believes_ your wild stories?” There’s panic in the duchess’ voice.

“That will be a matter for a judge to decide, cousin,” Celene says, finally stepping in.

Florianne attempts to convince her brother of her innocence, but he’s not one to be fooled. Gaspard’s chevaliers step in and take Florianne into custody.

While the Court erupts with gasps and excited murmurs, Archer sees himself and Celene out onto a private balcony overseeing the gardens. Gaspard and Briala join them.  

An argument soon breaks out amongst the three, and Archer cuts them off.

“Every one of you is implicated. You all conspired to allow this to happen,” Archer states sternly.

“That’s a bold claim, Inquisitor,” Celene scoffs. “Are you prepared to defend it?”

“Gaspard brought hired mercenaries into the palace for a coup.” Archer says. “I have the word of his captain.”

Briala laughs. “Oh, Gaspard. So predictable. Brutality is your only talent.”

“You don’t hold the moral high ground, Briala,” Archer says before she can continue. “You did murder ambassadors and forge documents.”

“So what if I did?” she asks. “Take me down, and elves will riot in every city in the empire.”

Archer rolls his eyes. “They won’t. Not when they learn you were sleeping with the woman who purged Halamshiral’s alienage. And Celene knew of Gaspards’s coup and let it go far enough to hang him for treason.”

“You’ve made your point,” Celene says. “What do you want?”

“If you don’t want your dirty secrets revealed, you’ll all do as I say and work together.”

The four of them head back to the ballroom, and Celene addresses the Court. She tells them that an agreement has been reached and involves Gaspard taking a high role in the cabinet. They aim to stand united so that neither side falls alone. In the name of peace and unity, Celene asks that the divided crowd enjoy the festivities into the night.

Though he’s incredibly tired from the evening’s activities, Archer has one more thing he needs to do before the group retires to the chateau rented out by the Inquisition.

He finds Fletcher who is actively ignoring the young noble girl asking one too many questions about the black paint streaked across his eyes.

“Fletcher Fóstrisen,” Archer says, holding his right hand out towards him. “Would you care to accompany me to the ballroom floor?”

Fletcher’s face shares the same shocked look as the girl next to him.

“Archer, I don’t know how…”

“Please?” Archer asks, his hand not moving.

With slight hesitation, Fletcher looks at his hand and then takes it. They move to the dance floor together, and, once again, all eyes are on them. Archer takes the lead, understanding that Fletcher’s only knowledge of dance comes from what he’s seen the nobility tonight. But together, like partners in everything else, they dance fluidly and in harmony. Very few toes are stepped on, and even fewer kisses are shared as they move.

~oOo~

The entire group is more than ready to go. Between warding off an assassination and changing the course of Orlesian history, the entire group is ready to sleep through the entire next day. Fletcher especially can’t wait to get off of the grounds as, for the last several hours, he’s been subjected to looks, judgement, and name calling.

“Hold on!” Archer barks at the group before the leave the palace grounds.

Wearily, the advisors, Dorian, Bull, and Fletcher all scuff their feet to a halt to see what Archer needs. But as they turn towards them, they see him run down a slight hill and out of view. He’s gone for about thirty seconds before they hear and then see him again.

Archer is running and yelling at the top of his lungs with a mountain goat held high above his head. At top speed, he runs right past his group and over to an outside wall of the palace. With all his might, he hurls the goat at the wall. The goat falls, and a small splattering of blood stains the pale stone.

“Maker’s breath, has he lost his mind?!” Leliana asks with a gasp.

Fletcher looks on, a smile creeping across his face. “No, he’s defending my honor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to be out of town for most of next week, but I'm still going to try to upload on Tuesday like usual!


	19. Chapter 19

“I’ve read books about romance, but I never could have imagined all this,” Fletcher says.

“If there’s one thing you need to know about me, it’s that I’m a romantic.”

Archer never would have grown up thinking that throwing an innocent animal at a wall could have caused another man to swoon for him, but clearly that’s all it took for some guys. Luckily for the goat, he trotted off without much issue after the incident, so it was really a win-win for Archer, Fletcher, and that woodland creature.

After leaving the Winter Palace grounds, the Inquisition group retreated to the chateau that had been rented out for them a few kilometers away. The original plan was to rent rooms in the nearest one, Chateau Haine, but Archer made sure that Josephine changed their plans considering that Archer had spent a considerable amount of time there and had left on an even worse note than he had previously at the Winter Palace.

But Chateau Chèvre was nothing less than a perfect retreat for the entire group. Though there were enough rooms for everyone to have one to themselves, Archer had asked that his room be prepared for two upon their return from the palace.

A fire blazed bright in a massive stone fireplace directly opposite a king-sized four poster bed, and candles illuminated would-be dark corners. A tray of fruits and cheeses sat next to a bottle of aged red wine on a round table between the Orlesian doors leading out to a private balcony.

“I know tonight was uncomfortable,” Archer says, sipping some wine as he sits on the edge of the bed. He can feel the heat of it reach his core and cause his chest to flush. “I just really appreciate that you came. When I have to deal with mentally taxing situations, I find that I fare better when I’m near someone I care about.”

Fletcher, who is sitting next to him, rolls a grape between his thumb and index finger as he listens and then pops it into his mouth. “I’m happy to be with you, Archer. But I’ll admit that I’ve been wondering all night why someone like you would want to be with someone like me. You’re a noble and I’m a barba-“

“Nonsense,” Archer cuts him off. “You’re Avvar, and I think that’s nothing but a good thing. I came from humble beginnings, and I don’t need to be with anyone of any particular kind of upbringing or creed. I want you…and, if I cared so much about all that, I would have encouraged you to go back to your lowlander roots and not to embrace your adopted culture.”

“That would have made you an arse.”

“Right, and I’m not…most of the time.” Archer takes his hand in his. “I’m a lot of things – handsome, intelligent, strong, funny, articulate-“

Fletcher stops him with a kiss.

“You’re insufferable. And you do talk too much, sometimes.” Fletcher pulls back from him and starts to undo the gold buttons down the middle of Archer’s Inquisition-issue coat.

Archer leans in to kiss him again, his hands blindly reaching for Fletcher’s own horrid coat and starts to mimic his actions. As soon as he feels Fletcher’s lips part, Archer pushes his tongue in gently and tastes the wine on him. Their hands both move shakily, nervously pulling at each other’s clothing until they’re forced to get up off of the bed to move on.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” Archer asks while pulling off his shoes. “I didn’t think we were there yet.”

Fletcher holds himself still with a hand on one of the bed’s posters, his free hand desperately working off his trousers. “I am. Why else would I have excused myself to the washroom for so long?”

Neither of them had discussed the logistics of their impending sexual relationship, but Archer is pleased that they had both silently come to the same conclusion. There’s only one man he’s ever dared to bottom for, and he isn’t sure that he can get back into the headspace for that, at least not any time soon.

“I halfway wondered if you were escaping out the window.”

“Escape from the man I love?” Fletcher cuts the last word short as though it came out accidentally.

Archer, who has finally managed to free himself from his clothing stares back at him. It’s unexpected. Completely unexpected.

“You love me?” Archer asks, needing to make sure he heard it.

Fletcher looks away while he nods, and he blushes. Nearly all of his pale skin turns to a shade of rose.

Archer moves closer to him and cups his chin with his fingers, turning his head towards him and up enough so they’re looking at each other.

To Archer, _love_ is the scariest word in the common language. It isn’t like that for others, but for him there is no sense of joy or hope in that word because everyone except his sister that he has ever loved or been loved by has left. Died. Abandoned him.

Love is terrifying.

But Archer is ready to be scared.

“I love you too,” he says, his voice slightly cracking.

Archer can’t speak another word, so he occupies his lips by kissing the other man again. He feels arms wrap around his neck as he walks them slowly back to the bed. As Fletcher’s legs hit the bed, they both fall back onto it, and Archer helps pull him into the center of the firm mattress.

With Fletcher on his back, Archer sits back on his knees between parted legs, and he takes Fletcher’s cock into his right hand. Slowly, he starts to work him up and down and he catches a bit of pre-ejaculate on his thumb. He feels fingertips graze his left thigh, and he turns his gaze to the mage’s face, overtaken by lust.

Fletcher is young, and that worries him. But he’s far wiser than a man in his mid-twenties usually is. At least he’s far wiser than Archer was at his age.

After a minute of playing with his boyfriend, he pushes himself forward on his knees while still straddling Fletcher. He leans a bit to his right to reach the bedside table. As he opens and reaches into the drawer, wet, full lips encompass the head of his cock. He groans as he smiles, lingering there for a moment to let the feeling last longer.

“Prop your knees up,” Archer tells Fletcher as he sits back down on his knees. In his hand he has a vial of oil he pulled out from the bedside table. He opens it up to pour a generous amount on his right index and middle fingers before tossing it to the side of the bed.

Fletcher does what he’s told and laughs. “You’ve got a bottle of oil all ready for us, and you were saying you weren’t sure if we’d reached this point in the relationship?”

“I didn’t want to assume,” Archer says as he positions a fingertip at Fletcher’s hole. “But I also didn’t want to be unprepared.”

“Lady keep me…” Fletcher whispers as Archer pushes his index finger into him.

Archer watches the mage turn his head to the side, eyes held tightly shut as he started to work in a second finger to stretch him open.

Though they’ve talked a little more about Fletcher’s past marriage since starting their relationship, Archer never felt it was appropriate to ask about more intimate details, and he hasn’t yet been drunk enough with Fletcher to cross those boundaries. But he’s always wondered how, in five years of marriage, the two of them had got on.

 With Fletcher so amenable to the idea of bottoming, he can make some assumptions, but his boyfriend is so incredibly tight that he’s fairly certain these two fingers are as much action as he’s ever seen in this capacity.

When Archer presses his fingertips up against Fletcher’s prostate, the mage covers his mouth to stifle a cry.

“Are you hanging in there alright, Fletcher?”

Pushing his upper body forward with palms pressed onto the bed, Fletcher sits up and slams his lips into Archer’s. “Yes,” he gasps as he pulls back slightly. “Yes, Archer. I’m alright. I want you, please…”

Archer pulls his fingers out as he joins their lips together once more. With gentle pressure, he pushes Fletcher back flat against the mattress once more, and he spreads his legs out to the side a few centimeters to get into a better position for himself. He rests his forehead against the other man’s. Carefully, he takes his own cock in hand and presses it against Fletcher’s hole. Before he even has the chance to push forward, he feels Fletcher try to push down against him, and he can’t help but laugh.

“Eager, aren’t we, kid?” he asks.

Fletcher presses his chin up and kisses him hungrily in answer.

Archer pushes himself in slowly, stopping every few seconds to allow Fletcher’s body to adjust and accommodate his size. It’s been so many years since he’s been this close and intimate with someone that he needs it to be slow for himself as well. Though he’s spent years longing for Anders, and now a few months wanting the same with Fletcher, there’s no comparison to the full connection felt when lover enters lover, and he knows he’s not going to last long any sudden friction.

Once he’s fully made it inside, Archer starts to move, pulling out and slowly pushing back in. His arms are on either side of Fletcher, and he leans down to kiss him. He can feel Fletchers hands at his hips, slowly moving up his sides and then around to his back. As he starts to quicken his pace, fingertips begin to press into his skin in a desperate attempt to hold on.

“You alright?” Archer asks. His lips move to kiss and nip along the skin of Fletcher’s jaw and neck.

“I-yes,” Fletcher manages between moans. “More…please, Archer.”

Archer bites the skin below Fletcher’s left ear and he starts to move as quick as he can while maintaining a steady pace. Across his lower back, a leg wraps around him and now fingernails dig into him, scratching wildly at his skin.

As he angles his hips upwards, aiming right for that sweet spot inside of the other man, he can feel Fletcher tense up below him.

Fletcher bites his lower lip hard to try to hold back his cries of joy, but he’s not the slightest bit successful. The room echoes with his moan as he comes ropes of hot white fluid that splatters against both Archer and himself.

With the tensing up of his partner, Archer feels a familiar heat welling up inside of himself. His balls contract, and he comes before he has the chance to even consider pulling out of him. To stifle their audible pleasure, he kisses Fletcher hard. At first their tongues battle for dominance, but soon neither of them has much more fight to give, completely exhausted from it all.

It takes every ounce of energy left inside of Archer to slide out of Fletcher and move off of him. His legs, feeling like jelly, can barely support him as he gets off of the bed to find something to clean them up with. Not wanting to walk all the way to the bathroom, Archer settles on one of their red Inquisition coats. _These things aren’t worth more than a come rag anyway…_

After cleaning his lover off, Archer settles onto the mattress at Fletcher’s side. The mage quickly cuddles up to him.

“I love you, Archer,” Fletcher mutters. His left hand sits on the warrior’s chest, and his index finger carefully plays with the ball in one of Archer’s nipple rings.

“I love you, too.”

Archer places his chin on the top of Fletcher’s head and wraps his left arm around him.

He looks down at his hand, the bright green light from the palm somewhat muted as it rests upon Fletcher’s hip. It’s a reminder of everything that’s happened so far and everything that’s yet to come.

In a way, Archer feels guilty finding time to love while the world is supposedly nearing its end. But he’s never been able to find love at convenient times, and perhaps that’s because there is no right time for love. The heart can’t help it if it sees someone it wants, even if there’s a mage/Templar conflict, Qunari uprising, or an ancient Tevinter magister attempting to become a malevolent god.

Archer listens as Fletcher’s breathing starts to become more regular, knowing that the tired mage is near moments from entering the Fade.

“Fletcher?” he asks.

The mage hums, now asleep and not really answering him.

“When all of this is over,” Archer whispers, “please don’t leave me too.”


	20. Chapter 20

It’s been just over a week since their time at the Winter Palace. The trip back from Halamshiral is a short one, as the ground is covered quickly while on hart and horseback. The two lovers tried their best to keep the new aspect of their life quiet, but neither of them could help stealing kisses from one another as their steeds drew close on the trail.

Once back at Skyhold, the couple made quick to learn everything they could about each other. Fletcher discovered just how dominant Archer could be in bed, how ticklish he was under his ribs, and how he woke up every morning on the floor from a rough night of sleep. He also learned that Archer’s lower abdominal scar was from a time when he defended a young elf from would-be kidnappers (when in reality it came from fighting the Arishok single-handedly).

Archer discovered that Fletcher was horrified by the prospect of sex toys, could get aroused almost instantly from being kissed in just the right spot near his right ear, and that he slept better at night with _Tales of the Champion_ under his pillow. He also learned that Fletcher’s hand and knuckle tattoos were designed to make casting self-taught spells more efficient.

For the first time in years, even in spite of the potential impending doom for all of Thedas, Archer feels at peace.

 _Well, almost at peace._ There’s only one thing he has to do before he can feel fully content.

~oOo~

Archer makes his way into the war table room.

“Alright, we’ve got important things to discuss,” Archer says, placing his hands down on the map on the table.

“It is time to plan our next attack,” Cullen suggests.

“No, no, not that,” Archer states. He stands back up and crosses his arms. “We need to figure out how to tell everyone who I actually am because I can’t keep this secret from my boyfriend anymore.”

Josephine sets her parchment board down on the table and looks at him.

“Surely you can’t be serious. After everything that’s happened, all the progress we’ve made? We can’t risk back-tracking. We’re well-loved in Orlais. Say the word, and Empress Celene will send her support.”

“But tell her you’re the same man who insulted her five years ago,” Leliana adds, continuing the thought, “and she’ll pull her men out or possibly send them after you. We won’t have enough people to match Corypheus’ numbers, and we might not have enough to close the remaining rifts.”

Cullen hesitates and takes a step back before speaking up. “Perhaps you can just tell Fletcher while we still keep everything under wraps.”

“He can’t do that,” Leliana replies.

“Why not?” Archer asks. It’s hard to admit he actually likes one of Cullen’s ideas for once.

Leliana holds her hands behind her back. “We can’t be certain that your relationship will work out. There’s nothing more stressful than war, and, if things end badly, he could tell the whole of Thedas and ruin everything for us. We have the fate of the world to think about here.”

“It’s not going to go badly,” Archer says, eyes looking away from his advisors.

“No one can know that,” Josephine says softly. “We’re all so much at risk here. I know it’s a lot to ask of you, but remember the secret that you’ve had _us_ keep.”

Archer knows that it’s been unfair of him to ask them to keep his past a secret, and he does understand that there’s significant risk if he’s found out. Before it was mostly about not wanting Cassandra to kill him, but now it really does seem like his chances of defeating Corypheus will be next to nothing if his true identity gets out.

What hurts the most is to even consider that his relationship with Fletcher could crumble so soon. Didn’t they love each other?

But he and Anders had loved each other too, and for many, many years. How long would he have to be with Fletcher before he felt completely secure? As long as he’d been with Anders? Twice as long?

“Alright,” Archer says, conceding. “What’s our next move then? Where is Corypheus now?”

“After you dealt with the duchess, Corypheus uprooted his major strongholds,” Cullen explains. “He’s moving south to the Arbor Wilds. His army clearly wasn’t prepared to flee, and our victories have them on the defensive.”

“Well let’s go then,” Archer says, locating the Wilds on the map. “It’s better to cross the Frostbacks now before winter hits and makes them near impassable.”

“Surely, we can go, but should we not spend some time figuring out what Corypheus is doing in such a remote area?” Josephine asks.

“His people have been ransacking elven ruins since Haven,” Leliana answers. “We believe he seeks more. What he hopes to find, however, continues to elude us.”

“Which should surprise no one. Fortunately, I can assist.”

Archer turns to see that Morrigan, the former Occult Advisor to Empress Celene, has entered the room. The mage and Leliana share sharp glances, a rivalry clearly years in the making.

After the events that took place at the Winter Palace, Morrigan was, by imperial decree, named a liaison to the Inquisition as aid from Celene herself. She had made herself and her son, Kieran, scarce during the journey to Skyhold and has yet to make her presence known - until now.

“I rarely turn down assistance from a mage,” Archer says. He sees Cullen sneer in his peripheral vision.

“What Corypheus seeks in those forgotten woods is as ancient as it is dangerous,” Morrigan states.

“Which is?” Archer asks.

“’Tis best…if I show you.”

Archer glances at his advisors. Seeing no overt disapproval, he exits the room with Morrigan.

She takes him to a tall, narrow room off of the castle’s garden. Inside are a number of objects covered by thick canvas blankets. At the far end of the room, something three times the warrior’s height sits between two windows.

Morrigan grabs the cloth covering the tall object with both of her hands, and she pulls it off with as much force as her slight body can give. A mirror is revealed, but the glass is anything but clear. Bright swirls of blue and a warped reflection of the two of them are all that can be seen.

“This is an Eluvian,” Morrigan informs him.

“I know what it is,” Archer says quietly. He steps towards it with his hand out, but he stops before touching it.

He remembers the day that Merrill showed him her eluvian, nestled in the back room of her small home in Lowtown’s alienage. Shattered and broken, it looked like nothing special, but his dear elven friend had assured him that it was magic and significant to her culture. She’d been desperate to fix it, and Archer had opted to help her.

In order to restore it, they had travelled to Sundermount where Merrill’s clan still resided. The clan’s Keeper had tried everything she knew to stop them, warning them that the completed eluvian would become a doorway that could allow a demon entry into their world.

Merrill would not hear it, and her arrogance had resulted in the near-total destruction of her clan.

Though Archer hadn’t made Merrill destroy the eluvian upon returning to Kirkwall, he had begged her to leave it alone and focus instead on helping the other elves in the alienage.

After Kirkwall fell into war, Archer found out from Varric that Merrill had gone on to protect the elves that had lost their homes. But every time he asked for more details regarding his friends, the dwarf refused to give him anything but pertinent information. Archer wasn’t sure if it was because they all hated him after everything that had happened or if it was to protect them.

So he’s not even sure if Merrill is still in Lowtown after everything that happened or if that eluvian has anything to do with this one.

“I’m surprised you know about them,” Morrigan says, her brow furrowed.

Archer’s mind jumps back to the present. “I-um. I had a book on ancient relics as a child back in Ostwick,” he lies. “All I know about them is that they’re elven and that they’re not like regular mirrors because they can take you someplace else if you step through them.”

“Hmm. An elementary understanding, but sufficient enough.” Morrigan looks him up and down but seems to believe him well enough. “I restored this one at great cost, but another lies within the Arbor Wilds. _That_ is what Corypheus seeks. And I suppose you already know the most important question of all: ‘where does it lead?’”

“Well, Corypheus wants to go to the Black City,” Archer says.

“Ultimately, yes,” Morrigan says. “But to get there, he needs a stepping stone into a place called the Crossroads. The ancient elves left it behind, filled with eluvians. It’s how they travelled between worlds. At present, it’s a graveyard with very few of the mirrors in working condition. Of those that do still work, only a few can be opened from this side of the Crossroads.

“That realm is not part of the Fade, but it is very close. Someone with enough power could tear down the ancient barriers…”

“And enter the Fade in the flesh,” Archer says, continuing her thought. “Like Corypheus wanted to do with the anchor.”

“You have made Corypheus desperate, Inquisitor,” Morrigan tells him. “We must work together to stop him, and soon.”


	21. Chapter 21

Nighttime has fallen in Ferelden, and Archer finds himself, once again, unable to sleep. The impending journey to find the eluvian Corypheus seeks is weighing heavily on him, and he’s not handling it well. Never in his life has Archer faced a foe as devastating as this, despite having actually faced him once before. The Corypheus he met in the Deep Roads was no match to the one he fears now, and he knows he’s been tricked into believing he could destroy him before. The weight of the entire world rests on Archer’s shoulders, and he could use something to help him tip the balance in his favor.

“Archer! Thank the Maker I’ve found you.”

Archer, who is double fisting loaves of bread in the kitchen, turns to see Miguel in the doorway. He spits a roll out of his mouth and sets the loaves on the counter where he’d found him.

“What can I help you with, my friend?” Archer asks.

“Follow me, please,” Miguel says before quickly turning and running out of the kitchen.

Archer takes another look at the bread, and quickly decides to abandon it to follow the other man. He rushes after him, running through the east wing of the castle until they make it to the medical ward. There are a number of bodies lying still on cots, and all of the Inquisition’s healers are attending to them.

“I don’t recognize their uniforms,” Archer says. “Who are they?”

Miguel walks over to one of the cots and stands by the feet of one of the patients. Archer joins him and looks down at a man, clearly breathing but unconscious. He’s older, possibly in his early fifties, with a few dark hairs peppered among long grey strands. His goatee is stark white, and it stand out against his dark brown flesh.

“This is Estevan,” Miguel says softly.

“Your old master, right?” Archer asks.

His friend nods. “He taught me everything I know about smithing and working with gemstones.”

“What is he doing here?”

“He, several of his apprentices, and a few guardsmen were traveling from Antiva to Orzammar to mine for rare minerals not found so far north,” Miguel explains. “On their way down, they started to have trouble with the Fade rifts. But amid the trouble, Estevan discovered something remarkable. He and I have been in contact with each other for years, and he knew I had come south to join the Inquisition. So, upon making his discovery, he decided to head our direction to see if he and his men could aid the Inquisition as well.

“They were nearly to Skyhold when their caravan was attacked.” Miguel looks at his old master with a pained gaze. “He had just enough time to tell me before he fell unconscious.”

Archer looks over at the healer attending to Estevan. “How bad are his injuries?”

“I’m afraid that his prognosis is quite grave, Inquisitor,” the young mage admits. She pulls the sheet which covers Estevan’s body down several centimeters to reveal several deep cuts to his arms and chest, all glowing a brilliant red.

“Is that-“

“Red lyrium,” Miguel says, finishing his thought. “The Red Templars who attacked them managed to kill three of his apprentices and a guard. All that’s left are two apprentices and three guards. All of them suffer from the same injuries. All are expected to pass come daybreak.”

Archer turns away, unable to face the horrible wounds afflicting the man before him. “Did he tell you where they were attacked?”

“They’ve got a base near what’s left of Haven. And Archer,” Miguel says. “They’ve took what Estevan was bringing to us. If they give it to Corypheus, we’re going to meet the same fate as my friend.”

~oOo~

Archer runs back to his quarters to quickly put on a set of drakescale armor and to grab his greatsword. He does so quietly so as not to wake Fletcher. Miguel asked if they could be accompanied by Bull, Dorian, and Varric instead.

The group heads out immediately, and Miguel explains to them that the item the Red Templars now have is a gem known as a Void Star. It’s an exquisite and geometrically perfect ruby that is formed over extremely long periods of time in regions where the Veil is weakened. Estevan discovered a Fade rift open on top of an exposed mineral vein where rubies were already being mined, and this is where he found the Void Star.

In addition to being worth a literal fortune, Void Stars have unique properties due to the nature by which they are formed. They’re laced with magic which isn’t entirely understood, but they can be used either wholly or in carefully carved out pieces to craft exceptionally powerful magical weapons. In addition to this, a skilled herbalist can also crush and dissolve the ruby to create an oil that can heal nearly any wound.

“Inquisitor!” A scout ahead of their group calls back to him, beckoning the group forward. “Inquisitor, I’ve spotted them. The Red Templars are inside what walls are left from Haven’s Chantry. There are just shy of a dozen of them, ser, but there’s also a Behemoth.”

Archer moves forward and looks down into the valley where the city of Haven once sat peacefully. He can see the Templars in their makeshift camp, utilizing the razed Chantry as a poor shelter from the cold. Patrolling the outskirts, he sees the red crystal-incrusted Behemoth, a monstrous shell of a former Templar.

“We’ve got to attack now,” Archer says, while looking up at the moon. “If we’re going to get back before daybreak, there’s no time to plan tactics. Use your best judgement and destroy them.”

Dorian and Varric stay upon the hill where they first saw the Templars, launching their attacks at range. They manage to confuse the unsuspecting Templars, and this allows the rest of the group to scale their way down and launch their attack.

The Iron Bull takes on a group of Templars by himself, meanwhile Archer and Miguel both have their eyes on the Behemoth. Archer pulls his greatsword from off of his back and swings it hard, clearly slicing through one of the gems jutting out from the Behemoth’s back. Miguel launches his body into the air with his dual scimitar blades slicing right through the monster’s core.

“Boss, look out!” Bull roars.

Instantly, Archer is aware of why the other warrior is calling to him. A half dozen Red Templars come running right at them, and the two men have to dodge out of the way to avoid getting hit. The Behemoth is able to get out of the crossfire and it runs into the walls of the Chantry. Amid the fighting, Archer looks over at it and sees it rummaging through a set of boxes, and he gasps as he sees it lift out a huge, glowing ruby.

“The Behemoth has it!” Archer yells. He stabs his sword through the abdomen of one of the Templars. After it falls to the ground, he steps on him to push down while he pulls the sword out of him. He then rushes back towards the Behemoth and slices him through its right knee cap.

The Behemoth roars out in pain and then grabs Archer by the neck. Archer gasps for breath, and he drops his sword so that he can pry at the Behemoth’s hands, desperate to get loose. His vision starts to fade, everything turning black, until he’s finally released.

He falls to the floor and gasps for breath, clutching at his neck. He sees Miguel rush over to him, and he pulls one of his blades out from between the now dead Behemoth’s eyes.

“Maker’s balls, man,” Archer chokes out. Miguel extends a hand out, and he takes it, getting back onto his feet. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” the rogue responds.

Miguel enlists Bull to help him push the Behemoth’s corpse over, and he retrieves the glistening jewel under him.

“That’s it?” Archer asks. He looks over and sees Dorian and Varric jogging over to them, each avoiding the many Templar corpses littering the ground.

“That’s it,” Miguel says. “It’s just a fragment of the size it should be. Much of it has been destroyed, it seems. But it’s enough that we can still use it. Let’s see how quickly we can get back.”

~oOo~

The group makes it back to Skyhold with nearly an hour to spare before daylight breaks. They rush into the medical ward and are pleased to see that neither Estevan or his crew has ended up passing while they had been away.

“Give the Void Star to the healers, Miguel,” Archer says. “Let’s save your friend.”

Miguel pulls the gem out of his pocket and stares at it for several seconds, turning it slowly in his left hand.

“I think Estevan would have wanted us to use it to help the Inquisition,” he says solemnly. “We could enhance your sword with this, Archer. It could make the blade strong enough to cut through any rock or metal. Wielding such a weapon against the Red Templars or Corypheus, your victory is certain. I-I want to save my friend, but I think that using it for crafting will ultimately help us more.”

“Miguel, I have no doubt that this, in your and Dagna’s hands, could create the most impressive weapon of all time. Not only would I be able to better fight Corypheus, but the reputation you two would incur would rival any weaponsmith in Thedas.”

Archer puts his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “But I can’t let them die for this. What kind of a leader would I be if I just let people sacrifice themselves for me?”

Miguel looks at him. “It would be so that you could save the world, Archer.”

“We’re going to save the world no matter what,” Archer says. He isn’t sure how much he believes the words coming out of his mouth, but he knows that he’d rather try it this way than sacrifice these brave Antivans who had no need to come here other than for the good of the world. “We’re saving your friends. They’ll get better, craft us some beautiful weapons, and we’ll find another way.”

Tears of gratitude in his eyes, Miguel pulls Archer into a hug, and he thanks him quietly. When they pull apart, Miguel hands what’s left of the Void Star to the elder healer, and they watch anxiously as she works with haste.


	22. Chapter 22

To Archer and Miguel’s delight, Estevan and his crew make a full recovery, and they quickly get to work crafting masterwork weapons for Inquisition soldiers. To show his gratitude, the Antivan master blacksmith even takes Archer’s beloved sword and hammers it out to rebalance it for him.

But without the most powerful weapon ever to be conceived, Archer will have to rely on other methods to bring Corypheus down. Forced to continue on with Morrigan’s plan to find what the ancient magister searches for, the Inquisition and its allies prepare to move on the Arbor Wilds.

Upon making it to their destination, fighting breaks out between the Inquisition and Corypheus’ loyal followers – the remaining Red Templars and a few Grey Warden stragglers. Corypheus himself, however, is seen heading further north than the Inquisition had expected. His movements are carefully tracked to an elven ruin known as the Temple of Mythal.

Archer and his group – Morrigan, Dorian, Varric, and Fletcher – fight forward until they make it to the crumbling temple hidden among the lush and overgrown ferns, seemingly one with the Wilds. There they catch their first glimpse of Corypheus since their fight at Haven. Somehow, he seems larger and stronger, and is certainly more determined than ever. He stands before a group of elves, and it seems as though he’s making demands.

The Inquisition group carefully moves forward, all bodies crouching behind a wall to spy on their enemy. Though they are still at a considerable distance, Archer can hear him as he threatens the elves.

“These are but remnants. They will not keep us from the Well of Sorrows.”

“I thought he came to pass through an eluvian,” Archer whispers. “Is that the name of the eluvian he seeks?”

“I am confused, too,” Morrigan replies quietly. “But I believe must have been mistaken. I would imagine that it is more likely a literal well.”

Before there’s time to discuss it further, Corypheus starts to destroy the elves before him. The temple fights back as though it is a living being itself. The would-be god is hit with blasts coming from stone columns marked with runes, and the sudden assault destroys his body.

With no attempt to even witness the aftermath, the Red Templars, led by Samson, rush forward across a bridge and into the temple’s inner walls.

“There’s no way it’s that easy,” Varric says as they rush down towards the charred remains of Corypheus.

Before there’s even a chance to take it all in, a guttural groan demands everyone’s attention away from the blackened corpse. A Grey Warden’s body, motionless just seconds before, raises up into the air, blood spewing through its mouth. As it screams, it transforms from human into the sinister form of Corypheus.

“It cannot be,” Morrigan says, taking a step back.

 “Across the bridge. Now!” Fletcher yells.

As the group flees from their foe, Corypheus’ archdemon swoops into view. Her screeching matches the yells still pouring from the Elder One’s new host. The group barely makes it inside of the temple walls before she reaches them.

As the five of them push the ancient temple doors closed, they feel the heat of her fiery breath just barely missing them.

“Lady preserve us,” Fletcher mutters under his breath. “Let’s seal the door before Corypheus can get in.”

“You really think something like a door is going to stop him?” Varric asks.

“It won’t hurt,” Archer says.

The three mages each raise their staves and cast protective spells against the doors, sealing the middle with a warm golden glow that quickly dissipates into darkness. The entire group then moves forward into the temple towards a distant light.

“At last, Mythal’s sanctum. Let us proceed before Corypheus interferes,” Morrigan suggests.

“No,” Archer says. “We came here because of the eluvians, and now we find that it has nothing to do with them. We need to know what we’re dealing with before pressing forward.”

“As I stated, I do not know what the Well of Sorrows is,” Morrigan says, crossing her arms. “Whatever the Well of Sorrows might be, Corypheus seeks it, and thus you must keep it from his grasp.”

“I think if you wanted a mage party, you might have thought to bring Solas,” Dorian states. “He knows far more about elven culture than the rest of us ever could.”

Archer frowns at him. “Unless you’d like to get caught in another time warp, Pavus, I suggest you keep to the present. There’s no time for ‘what ifs’ or ‘should haves’ now.”

He thinks he can hear Varric mutter _‘You’re one to talk’_ under his breath.

Fletcher moves forward to stand between the two, and he places a hand on Archer’s shoulder. “Let’s find the well before the Red Templars do. They’ve already got a significant head start on us.”

“I want to know how Corypheus returned to life,” Dorian says as the group presses forward. “We saw him _die_.”

“It’s not the first time this has happened though,” Archer states. “I-“

Varric cuts him off. “ _Hawke_ and I killed him, Inquisitor. You’re right. I still can’t wrap my head around it, that guy was as dead as they come.”

“His life force passes on to any blighted creature, darkspawn, or Grey Warden,” Morrigan reveals.

“Then he can’t really die,” Dorian says.

“If he can’t die, how can we possibly defeat him?” Fletcher looks at Archer worth a worried gaze.

“We’ll find a way to stop him once we’re done here.” Archer isn’t so sure of himself, but he’s not going to let his love worry. He may not have been able to stop Corypheus for good before, but, if they can make it to the well before he can, then there has to be a chance.

As they approach a set of ivy-covered stairs, Morrigan stops at the bottom. “’Tis strange,” she starts. The group stops and turns to her. “Archdemons possess the same ability, and still the Grey Wardens are able to slay them.”

“Perhaps we should have brought along Blackwall-“

“Perhaps you should stop talking before the Inquisitor stabs you, Sparkler,” Varric suggests.

They continue up the stairs as Morrigan speaks again. “But instead of killing him like an archdemon, the Grey Wardens locked Corypheus away. Perhaps they knew he could do this…but not how.”

_That would have been really helpful to know when we killed him the first time,_ Archer thinks.

Deeper into the temple, the group finally catches up with Samson and the rest of the Red Templars in a lush courtyard. Samson immediately sics his bestial soldiers upon the Inquisition group.

As they start to fight them off, elven archers appear out of the shadowy perimeter of the area. They turn their bows only on the Templars, allowing Archer’s group to move ahead once the battle is over.

As Archer races towards the direction Samson took, Morrigan stops him and points out another path that she believes leads more directly to the well.

“There is…a danger to the natural order,” she states, walking towards the path she desires to take. “Legends walked Thedas once. Things of might and wonder. Their passing has left us all the lesser.

“Corypheus would squander the ancient power of the well,” she continues, turning to face Archer. “ _I_ would have it restored.”

“I thought you didn’t know about the well,” Archer asks suspiciously.

“I know more than I let on,” she admits. “A great boon is given to those who use the Well of Sorrows…but at a terrible price.”

“We’re here to stop Corypheus, not get you some fantastic prize from an old well,” Archer sneers.

“Your cause is my priority, but if the opportunity arises to save this well, I am willing to pay the cost.”

“And gain what?” Archer asks.

“That is what we must discover,” she says.

As the group presses forward, they puzzle out a series of ancient rituals that open the doors ahead of them, eventually reaching a large chamber. Braziers light the area between the tall stone statues of elves that line the perimeter of the room.

As soon as they enter, the doors to the chamber close behind them. The sound of bowstrings being drawn causes Archer to turn his gaze to the side.

There are elven archers behind him, but, before he can turn around, his attention is captured by a man who appears on a marble staircase in front of him. Archer can barely see the face of the cloaked figure, but the vallaslin on his face marks him as another elf.

“You are unlike the other invaders,” the elf states. “But you bear the mark of magic which is…familiar.”

Archer feels the anchor on his hand grow hot, the green light becoming brighter than its normal hue.

“How has this come to pass?” the elf asks. “What is your connection to those who first disturbed our slumber?”

“They are my enemies, as well as yours,” Archer states calmly.

“I am called Abelas,” the elf continues. “We are sentinels, tasked with standing against those who trespass on sacred ground. We wake only to fight, to preserve this place. Our numbers diminish with each invasion. I know what you seek. Like all who have come before, you wish to drink from the vir’abelasan.”

“’The place of the way of sorrows’,” Morrigan whispers to Archer. “He speaks of the well!”

“It is not _for_ you. It is not for _any_ of you,” Abelas states firmly.

Archer steps forward. “We came for our shared enemy, Abelas. We had no knowledge of the well before entering this place. We do not wish to fight you, nor do we wish to steal from you.”

Abelas considers this for a moment before nodding. “I believe you. Trespassers you are, but you have followed Rites of Petition. You have shown respect to Mythal. If these others are enemies of yours, we will aid you in destroying them. When this is done, you shall be permitted to depart…and never return.”

“We could use their help,” Fletcher suggests. “And, if the alternative is fighting them, I do not wish to destroy the last of their people.”

Morrigan turns to Archer. “Consider carefully. You must stop Corypheus, yes, but you may also need the well for your own.”

Archer frowns. “I have no intention of using it, Morrigan. None of us should.” He turns to face Abelas. “I accept your offer.”

“You will be guided to those you seek,” the elf tells him. “As for the vir’abelasan…it shall not be despoiled, even if I must destroy it myself.” He departs.

“No!” Morrigan screams.

Before anyone has a chance to stop her, she rushes forward and takes on the form of a raven, flying forward after Abelas. On foot, the group runs after her in a desperate attempt to make it to the well before she can do anything too rash.

After rushing through the maze of the inner temple and defeating what’s left of the Red Templars, the group catches up to Abelas. He races up a dilapidated staircase towards a pool of water surrounded by a number of eluvians. Morrigan, still in the form of a raven, flies ahead of him and then transforms back into her familiar human shape.

“You heard his parting words, Inquisitor,” Morrigan says as the Inquisition group makes it up the stairs. “The elf seeks to destroy the Well of Sorrows!”

“So the sanctum is despoiled at last,” Abelas states angrily.

“You would have destroyed the well given the chance,” Morrigan says.

“To keep it from your grasping fingers! Better it be lost than bestowed upon the undeserving!”

“Fool! You’d let your people’s legacy rot in the shadows!”

Archer stops the two of them from saying anything else. “We’re not stealing the well from these people! I don’t care how useful it can be, Morrigan. None of us are elves. None of us have the right-“

“The well clearly offers power, Inquisitor,” Morrigan says, cutting him off. “If that power can be turned against Corypheus, can you afford not to use it?”

As she asks the question, Abelas moves to try to destroy the well. He lifts his hands, the water in the pool starting to swirl above him. Yet, before he has time to complete his task, Morrigan rushes behind him and stabs him straight through the spine, killing him within seconds.

“Are you insane?” Fletcher barks at Morrigan as Abelas’ lifeless body falls to the ground.

“He was going to destroy the well,” Morrigan says as she wipes her blade clean on her skirt. “What if the entire temple was destroyed with it. Are you so eager to die for sympathy’s sake?”

“You don’t think we could have- “Archer stops. He’s furious, but there’s no point in arguing; the man already dead. “I still don’t think we should use the well, Morrigan. It really isn’t ours to use.”

Morrigan steps forward towards well, ignoring what Archer says. She points at the far end of the well towards a mirror. “You’ll note the intact eluvian. I was correct on that count, at least.”

“Is it still a threat? Can Corypheus use it to travel to the Fade?” Archer asks.

“Each eluvian requires a key,” Morrigan says. “The well _is_ that key. Take its power, and Mythal’s last eluvian will be no more use to Corypheus than glass.

“I am willing to pay the price the well demands, whatever that may be,” Morrigan says, turning towards Archer. I am also the best suited to use its knowledge in your service.”

“I’m not so sure about this, Inquisitor,” Varric says wearily. “She seems to far too eager.”

“I do not hide it!” she explains. “To restore lost knowledge, I would risk much. And, of those present, I alone have the training to make use of this. Let me drink, Inquisitor.”

“Absolutely not,” Archer says sternly. “I don’t think any of us has the right to drink from here. Solas, perhaps, but he’s not here.”

“We could send word for him, have him meet us here or perhaps regroup with him at a later date,” Dorian suggests.

Archer shakes his head. “There’s no time for that. Corypheus could get here at any moment. If anyone here is to use the well, it will be me.”

“Archer, you can’t!” Fletcher says, stepping towards him quickly. He grabs his arm and pulls him closer. “You don’t know what will happen, and I- _we_ need you. Only you can finish closing the rifts, and-“

Archer places his right hand on Fletcher’s cheek, gently caressing it with his thumb. “I have to do this Fletcher. This is going to give me the strength to defeat him, and I can’t risk anything bad happening to the rest of you. Sometimes you’re on the precipice of change…and you just have to jump.”

Archer has put enough of the people in his life in danger – Carver, Bethany, Alistair. This time it has to be him.

He pulls away from Fletcher and walks towards the well.

With one more step to take, he’s suddenly frozen in place as though his feet have become a part of the stone floor.

Unable to move, Archer can only watch helplessly as Fletcher rushes past him and jumps into the well.

He drinks.


	23. Chapter 23

“FLETCHER, NO!” Archer screams.

As soon as Fletcher drinks from the well, the magic that paralyzed Archer dissipates. Archer hurtles forward into the well just as the water is starting to drain.

Fletcher has fallen onto his back, completely motionless in the center of it. Archer rushes to grab his body.

“No no no no...no, Fletcher, please,” Archer pleads, pulling the man’s upper body against his chest as he sits back on his knees. He holds him tight, unconsciously rocking them back and forth.

Archer feels as though he’s going to die right here and now alongside his lover. It’s taken him years to slowly find happiness again, and it all comes crashing down in a moment of recklessness that he wasn’t able to prevent. Logically, he knows that, regardless of what happens to Fletcher, he has to go on to fight Corypheus and save the world. But now he wonders if this world and all its tragedy and heartache are _worth_ saving. If Fletcher dies, he won’t come back even if Archer does save the world. Nor will he get Anders back. The Chantry will still be fighting the mages. There will always still be evil…

“Inquisitor…” Dorian speaks softly, and he cautiously walks into the well near him. “May I see?”

Archer doesn’t want to let go, his grip on the other man is so tight. If he lets him go, that’s it and he’ll have to admit that the man he’s come to love so much is dead. But Dorian starts to pull on Fletcher’s body, and Archer knows that he can’t hold him forever. He gently lets him down, and he carefully cradles his head before Fletcher’s body is lying flat on its back again.

Dorian kneels down and places a few fingertips against Fletcher’s neck. He leans down, his ear near Fletcher’s mouth to check for breath.

“He’s still alive,” Dorian says with a sigh of relief. “His pulse is very weak, but he’s still with us.” The rest of their group seems to breathe easier as well.

Archer collapses down over Fletcher’s torso, overwhelmed with relief but also fear about whatever permanent damage Fletcher might face.

Only a few minutes pass before Fletcher starts to rouse. He groans, and Archer helps him sit up.

“You fucking idiot!” Archer yells at him. “You beautiful, stupid, ridiculous, son of a-“

He stops his own words by gently kissing the other man and pulling him into an embrace so tight that he thinks he might actually stop his breath if he doesn’t end it soon enough.

Dorian and Varric both help the men get back on their feet. With each step Fletcher takes, bright blue light amid dark charcoal smoke swirls around him. The tattoos on his palms and knuckles light up green, just like Archer’s anchor, but it lasts only a few seconds before it all disappears.

Morrigan finally steps into the empty well to observe what is happening. “You arrogant fool. How dare you-?“

She’s cut off by an enraged snarl behind them. Heads turn to see Corypheus standing on an overlook mere meters away from them. He’s fuming, and he starts to fly towards them.

“The eluvian!” Morrigan yells. She runs towards the eluvian opposite the staircase, and the rest of the group follows.

One by one, everyone comes back through the eluvian in the room off of the garden in Skyhold. To their great surprise and relief, the eluvian seals itself behind them, and Corypheus is nowhere to be seen.

~oOo~

“How could you let this happen?” Cullen yells. “I knew we shouldn’t have allowed this _apostate_ to join our ranks in the first place, and now he’s gone and done something like this.”

“If it was between him and Corypheus getting the power from the well, should we not prefer it to go to someone on our side?” Josephine asks.

“It should have been _I_ who learned the well’s secrets,” Morrigan insists. “This child knows nothing of elven culture. It is a waste on him.”

Leliana frowns. “And it’s better in your hands because you’re never one to take advantage of things, are you?”

“Enough!” Fletcher yells. He looks at Archer who stands silently, arms crossed.

There have been two moments in Archer’s life when he’s stood in silence while everyone else yelled at the one he loved: now and when Anders destroyed the Kirkwall Chantry. It’s literally and figuratively paralyzing to him for watch someone he would die for make a life-altering decision like this. And while his heart wants to support their every action due to the love he feels, his body falters. He’s going to need some time before he can truly start to cope.

“I know that none of you understand why I did what I did,” Fletcher states. He stands opposite the advisors next to the War Table, and he is flanked by Morrigan and Archer. “But if everyone will stop treating me like some ignorant barbarian for one moment and listen to me, maybe you can try to see it from my point of view.

“I am one of several mages who belongs to my clan, and I am trained to be an augur. As such, I am more attuned to spirits than your average mage, and it is my job to be an interpreter and a conduit for messages from the gods. I know that I am not the most well-versed in Dalish culture-“

“Which is why it should _not_ have been you,” Morrigan barks.

“I am not ignorant, though!” Fletcher insists. “I have read much of their lore, and I had contact with them in my time among the Avvar. Both our people live similar lives – we’re nomadic, we have a pantheon of gods, and we have learned to live peacefully and with truce for centuries. I agree that it should not have been me, but it was better to be me than you, or Archer, or, especially Corypheus.

“I could sense the voices at the Well of Sorrows,” Fletcher continues. “I couldn’t hear or understand them, but I knew that they were there because I could _feel_ them. And, now that I have drank from the well, I can hear them…barely, but they’re there. It’s hard to understand them, and, so far, most of the time I don’t understand them. However, I know that I can endure this and utilize the voices to help us so long as you are willing to put your trust in me.”

“I didn’t sense voices,” Archer admits, finally speaking up. “Did you, Morrigan?”

Still angry, Morrigan doesn’t answer verbally, but shakes her head to indicate that she had not.

“So, now you’re just hearing voices?” Cullen asks. “Maybe you were hearing them all along and this has nothing to do with the well at all.”

“You don’t have to believe me, but you should,” Fletcher says. “I already know this: Corypheus’ dragon isn’t an archdemon. It’s a dragon in which he has invested part of his power. Kill it, and his ability to jump to other bodies will be disrupted for a time. Then he can be killed.”

Leliana leans forward on her feet. “That’s…no simple task. Corypheus alone is powerful, but with his dragon…”

Fletcher closes his eyes for a moment, his body swaying slightly. “I need to summon Mythal.”

“Whatever Mythal was, goddess or myth…” Morrigan begins.

“None of us should even believe in Mythal,” Cullen states. “We’re all humans here.”

“I am Avvar,” Fletcher says. “My beliefs are not your beliefs just because we are both humans. I _know_ that the Lady of the Skies exists because I have witnessed what she can do when I perform sky burials. I _know_ that Korth exists because when we honor him the grass turns greener for our goats. But I am not so ignorant to think that everything I believe is the only thing that can be real. If an ancient Tevinter magister looked to Mythal for strength, we would be arrogant to think there was no merit in her.”

Fletcher looks down at the map on the War Table and points to a spot in the Arbor Wilds. “There. There’s an altar in the wilderness. _That’s_ where I need to go. She can help us do this.”

“I see you are determined. So be it.” With that, Morrigan turns and exits the room.

Archer watches her leave and then stares at Fletcher, unsure of everything. When he turns to the advisors, he sees them sharing his same troubled expression.

“Are you…certain of this?” Josephine asks, quietly.

“Entirely.” Fletcher starts to walk out, but then turns to finish his thoughts, looking only at Archer. “I have too much in my heart to risk being anything but certain.”


	24. Chapter 24

Once Fletcher had left the War Table room, Archer and his advisors made arrangements to carry forth Fletcher’s plan. Archer and Morrigan would accompany Fletcher to Mythal’s altar come first light while Cullen prepared the remaining Inquisition forces for their impending battle against Corypheus.

With the rest of the evening to spare, Archer makes to inform both Morrigan and Fletcher of the plan. Morrigan isn’t thrilled about being anywhere near the Avvar mage, but she won’t pass up the opportunity to see what takes place at the altar.

Fletcher, however, is harder to talk to. Archer figures that his lover would retire to their room that they’ve shared ever since coming back from Halamshiral, but he’s nowhere to be found. He looks in the kitchens, the library, and even in the tavern without any luck. Next, he looks to Fletcher’s old quarters above the tavern. It’s completely empty save for the bed Fletcher used to sleep on.

Archer feels a cold sweat wash over him as he turns to leave the empty room. Fletcher has left him, abandoned him. Just like Anders did.

Panicked, Archer rushes down a set of stairs down to the castle’s bailey. He isn’t sure where Fletcher would have gone, but, unless he’s used an eluvian, he couldn’t have gotten far.

He’s at the stables and is about to saddle up a hart for himself when he sees Fletcher.

“What are you doing here?” Archer asks, breathing a sigh of relief.

Fletcher is sitting on a bale of hay. _Tales of the Champion_ is open on his lap.

“I’m clearing my head,” Fletcher says. “I figured I could have some peace away from you here since you don’t like the horses.”

Archer frowns. “Away from me? I’m sorry, but what in the void have I done for you to be mad at _me_? If anything, I should be yelling at you for nearly causing my heart to stop multiple times today.”

Fletcher closes the book and stands up. “You’re my partner, Archer. Can’t you just put some trust in me and my decisions? I could have used a little help back there defending myself to your advisors.”

“It’s a little hard to defend you when I’m not sure I agree with your actions. I understand it better now after you explained your reasoning to us, but…if this is real, then it’s a very serious thing.”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” Fletcher asks him. “It’s not like I just ran into the well without thinking about it first.”

“You could be bound to an elven goddess though!” Archer runs his right hand through his hair and then shakes his head in frustration. “What if it means you have to die to save Corypheus? Or if you’re used in some horrible way later on? Didn’t you think about what it would do to me to lose you?”

“I would make the same choice a million times over,” Fletcher says. “You cannot deal with the anchor and the Well; it’s too much for one man to bear. And maybe you shouldn’t be so selfish either. One man losing someone he loves is nothing compared to the entire world being destroyed. We needed someone who would use the power for good to drink, and that’s what happened.”

“You don’t know that I wouldn’t be able to handle it,” Archer says. He grabs the book from the other man and stares at the cover. “This guy dealt with Qunari and red lyrium and the mage uprising and more, right? Who’s to say I can’t deal with an anchor and being bound to Mythal?”

Fletcher takes the book back from him. “You’re not Hawke.”

_The fuck I’m not!_

But Archer says nothing. It’d be so easy to admit it now, but he knows that Fletcher’s current anger with him would only explode.

“We set out for the altar at dawn,” Archer finally manages to say. “We’ll meet on the bridge.”

Fletcher looks hurt. “You don’t want to talk about this anymore?”

Archer shakes his head before turning to leave the barn. “You came out here to be away from me. And I think you’d rather spend time with your precious Hawke anyway.”

~oOo~

“Hey, Inquisitor! Over here!”

Archer can barely hear the welcome over Maryden’s song as he enters the Herald’s Rest tavern. He looks around until he sees a hand sticking up in the air waving at him, and he smiles when he sees who it is.

“Hello Miguel…Bull,” Archer says, one eyebrow raised.

Miguel is perched on The Iron Bull’s lap.

The Antivan isn’t a small man by any sense of the word; in fact, he’s rather tall and broad for a typical dual wielding rogue. No matter his weapon of choice, Miguel could break a smaller man in half even on his off days.

But, in the Qunari’s lap, he looks almost normal-sized.

“Hey Boss,” The Iron Bull says. He leans down to give Miguel a quick peck on the mouth before Miguel gets off of him.

“You look like shit,” Miguel says, walking closer to Archer. He places a palm on his back and leads him over towards the bar. “Let me buy you a drink.”

“Thanks,” Archer says, taking a seat at the bar.

He asks Cabot for a pint of ale. Miguel orders a whisky for himself and he sets a handful of silver coins on the counter. When Cabot goes to make change, Miguel holds up his hand up to stop him.

“Forgive me for prying, but since when are you and Bull a thing?” Archer asks while Cabot pours their drinks. “I thought he and Dorian were together.”

Miguel takes his whisky as it’s handed to him, and he quickly downs it. “They are. I’ve just been invited to join them, so I’m seeing how it goes.”

Archer has heard of polyamorous relationships before, but he’s never given them much thought. He knows that, personally, he’d be far too jealous for something like that. He thinks that if anyone could manage it, though, it would be Miguel. Of the two of them, he’s always been far more level-headed.

“Ah. Best of luck to you and your…” He shudders, remembering walking in on Bull and Dorian at Halamshiral.

Miguel laughs heartily and pats his friend on the back. “Amazing what the human body can handle, no? Anyway, you and that mage of yours…how is that going?”

Archer fiddles with the pint between his palms. He stares down into it, barely able to see his own blurry reflection in the dark liquid contained within. “Not so great at the moment. He did something incredibly stupid today that could have killed him…or might kill him later.”

“The whole Mythal thing, yes?” Miguel asks.

“How’d you know?”

“Dorian told Bull while he and I were in a compromising position.”

“Of course he did,” Archer said with a smirk.

“I don’t know why it angers you so much though,” Miguel says. “It seems logical enough to me. Dorian even considered it somewhat romantic.”

“Romantic?” Archer shakes his head. “I mean, I know that it might seem that way because he was trying to keep me from having to deal with it, but it’s just reckless. I can handle shit like that, and he’s just…”

“Another mage you love making a big decision without your input.”

Archer turns to stare at him. “Excuse me?”

“Tell me I’m wrong,” Miguel says, practically daring him. “You play this ‘I love you and support you no matter what’ card with the people you care about, but you get hurt when you can’t help them make their decisions. Not everyone needs your permission or involvement though, my friend. Maybe you should have faith that it will work out whether you have a hand in it or not.”

“You’re one to talk about faith,” Archer murmurs. Like him, Miguel is no believer.

“There are lots of things to have faith in that have nothing to do with religion – love, people, the desire to do good. You tend to surround yourself with people who have the latter, Archer. I think you owe it to Fletcher to put some trust into him and the choices he makes.”

Archer sighs. “I guess I owe him that much. He’s been nothing but good to me, and I haven’t even been able to be honest with him.”

“Do you love him?”

“Of course I do,” Archer says, defensively.

“Do you love him as you loved Anders?”

“I-“ he isn’t sure how to answer. The real answer is ‘yes,’ but, even now, he isn’t sure that he could pick Fletcher over Anders if that choice arose.

“Yes,” he finally manages.

“Then you need to tell him, Archer.”

“I can’t. Not now, at least.” Archer picks up his pint and finishes it. “I don’t even know if I can ever tell him at this point, I’m in so deep. Why can’t I just assume this new identity for good, huh?”

“People change who they are all the time,” Miguel says. “But the truth has a way of coming out whether you want it to or not. Just make sure it doesn’t come out in a way you can’t come back from.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're officially halfway through! Thanks everyone so much for sticking with me and for the words of encouragement!


	25. Chapter 25

After a mostly sleepless night, Archer meets Fletcher out by the bridge leading out from Skyhold in the morning. Both men start to speak to apologize to one another, but, upon seeing Morrigan coming their direction, they decide to say all they need to by briefly hugging one another.

The trip south to the Arbor Wilds is a quiet one. The only words spoken are requests for short breaks or arguments about which paths to follow.

Once they make it to the Wilds, Fletcher sets out ahead of Archer and Morrigan to lead them through a maze of trees and crumbling stone walls.

The group passes through a stone archway and find themselves in a grassy clearing surrounded by stone walls. Fletcher makes his way towards a set of steps leading up to a large statue ahead.

“There it is,” he says quietly, gesturing to an altar at the base of the statue.

Archer walks up behind him and looks at the statue. It seems to depict the body of a slender woman, but the figure is so weathered that it’s a wonder Fletcher can recognize who exactly it’s supposed to be. The facial features entirely lack anything recognizably human or elven, and there are no arms at all. What looked from a distance like a billowing cloak appears to actually be a pair of wings. The statue looks more like a mix of a woman and a dragon than an elven goddess.

It hits Archer again just how wrong it is that he, Fletcher, and Morrigan are the ones here. The Dalish have had their culture spat upon so much by humans, and this feels both disrespectful and somewhat blasphemous.

“There’s writing there,” Archer says, pointing at the stone near the altar. “It’s in Elvish. Can you read any of it, Morrigan?”

“I can,” Fletcher says before the woman is given a chance. “The voices can read it to me. ‘We few who travel far, call to me, and I will come. Without mercy, without fear.’”

“Are you sure about this?” Archer asks, his eyes pleading with Fletcher.

“He can’t go back now,” Morrigan says. “The time for that passed the moment he foolishly plunged himself into the well.”

Fletcher ignores Morrigan and smiles at Archer before nodding confidently. Then he closes his eyes.

“You know who I am: the last to drink from your Well of Sorrows,” Fletcher states loudly. “Come to me, Mythal. Whatever you are, whoever remains, I invoke your name and your power.”

Several seconds pass without anything happening. For a brief moment, Archer feels a rush of relief as it appears that the well was nothing more than myth after all.

Then his hope is shattered as charcoal-colored smoke appears in the grass in front of the altar. It rises and starts to take on the shape of a woman until she comes into clear view.

Archer’s jaw drops as he recognizes the woman before him. He’s seen her only twice before, but she’s unmistakable.

_Flemeth._

“Mother,” Morrigan says with a sneer.

“Now, isn’t this a surprise?” the woman says as she looks at Morrigan. She turns her gaze to Archer and smiles.

“Morrigan, how can your mother be Mythal?” Fletcher asks.

“She is a deceiving witch!” Morrigan screams. She raises her hands and starts to cast a spell to ward off her mother.

Flemeth sighs. “Be a good lad and restrain her.”

Fletcher turns instantly and grabs both of Morrigan’s wrists, blocking her attempts to lash out at Flemeth.

“What are you doing? What… are you doing?!” Morrigan asks as she resists against the other mage.

“I-I don’t know!” Fletcher says. He’s trying to pull back from her, but his hands are clamped around her wrists like vices.

“Of course you know,” Flemeth interjects. “You drank from the well, did you not? You are now bound to my will, Fletcher Fóstrisen of the Avvar.”

“Then… you _are_ Mythal?” Morrigan asks as she’s finally released from Fletcher’s grip.

“You invoke that name so easily. I wonder if you know what it means,” Flemeth says.

“I do not understand.” Morrigan looks at her pleadingly. “How can _you_ be Mythal?”

“Once I was but a woman,” she answers as she looks up upon the crumbling statue of Mythal, “crying out in the lonely darkness for justice. And she came to me, a wisp of an ancient being, and she granted me all I wanted and more. I have carried Mythal through the ages ever since, seeking the justice denied to her.”

“Then… you carry Mythal inside you?” Archer asks, finally finding his voice amid his own fear. He’s terrified she’ll reveal their past together in front of Fletcher, but he needs answers. He needs to know if this Mythal… this need for Justice… is carried anything like Anders and the spirit he took inside of himself.

“She is a part of me, no more separate than your heart from your chest. No more separate than a wronged mage and Vengeance…

“What do the voices tell you?” she asks, turning to Fletcher.

Archer expects him to know everything at this moment, but his answer isn’t what he expects.

“They say you speak the truth,” Fletcher says.

“I am Mythal. But what _was_ Mythal?” Flemeth asks rhetorically. “A legend given name and called a god, or something more? Truth is not the end, but a beginning.”

Flemeth walks forward and up the steps towards the group on the altar.  She looks at Fletcher up and down. “You were not who I imagined would call for me, my boy. But you’ve a heart of light despite the superficial darkness. You may not be the Herald, but you will help to bring about a new age.

“As for me, I have had many names. But you…may call me Flemeth.”

“I know the name ‘Flemeth,’” Fletcher says. “It belongs to an ancient Fereldan legend that I’ve read about in books. The legend says that, long ago, you left your husband for a lover. Your husband then tricked you, killed your lover, and imprisoned you. Then a spirit came to offer you vengeance. Mythal – that’s what you spoke of.”

Flemeth narrows her eyes. “One day, someone will summarize the terrible events of _your_ life so quickly. But, yes. I was that woman. That is how my tale began.”

“Flemeth appears in other legends, helping heroes for reasons of her own,” Fletcher continues. “Like outside of Lothering when you helped Hawke escape to Gwaren and off to Kirkwall. You helped him so he would take you to the mountains where the Dalish lived outside of the city.”

Archer feels his nerves well up in the pit of his stomach at the words.

“I nudge history, when it’s required,” Flemeth says. “Other times, a shove is needed. And,” she says, turning her gaze to Archer, “as I realized too late, sometimes even a strong kick to the chest.  But the course of time does not always need to go the way one hopes in order to play out well, it would seem.”

“We summoned you because we need your help,” Archer says quietly.

“Against the magister who grasps beyond his reach. Yes, I know,” Flemeth says. “But it amazes me that you have the gall to ask for such things when you failed to fly after I asked you to do so once before.”

Fletcher turns to face Archer and looks at him questioningly.

“I do not, however, forget what you have done for me. Time will tell for you, dear bird.”

Flemeth looks back at Fletcher. “The voices did not lie to you, Avvar. I _can_ help you. The altar’s guardian will come. Master the dragon, and it will be yours to command against Corypheus. Fail… and die.”

“Wait!” Morrigan screams as Flemeth turns to leave.

“I wished to see who drank from the Well of Sorrows. It has been a _very_ long time,” Flemeth says. “Now I have, and he is free to go.”

“So, you’re done with him?” Archer asks. “You won’t come back for him after all this is done?”

“Tit for tat,” Flemeth says. “What do you think?”

Archer starts to speak again, but he’s cut off by Morrigan.

“But what of us?”

“A soul is not forced upon the unwilling, Morrigan. You were never in danger from me.” With that, Flemeth disappears into the dark mist from which she came.

“Archer. Archer, what did she mean?” Fletcher asks. “What did you do for her?”

Before Archer has a chance to fabricate some sort of answer, a piercing shriek turns the group’s attention to the sky.

Out from behind the trees flies a golden dragon. It immediately starts to attack.


	26. Chapter 26

“Why the fuck didn’t we bring anyone else here with us to fight the big, bloody dragon?” Archer yells, readying his greatsword in both of his hands.

“We didn’t exactly know Mythal was going to make us tame her dragon,” Fletcher says. His staff is in hand, but he isn’t holding it in a defensive position yet. “We don’t necessarily have to fi-“

“MOVE!” Morrigan screams.

The three of them rush to the perimeter of the grassy area by the altar of Mythal right as the goddess’ dragon swoops in and unleashed a breath of fire where they were all just standing. She screams and outstretches her wings as she lands upon the grass, and it’s clear that this taming isn’t going to come without a battle for dominance.

“You two aim for her head and distract her from me while I try to get her from behind!” Archer yells, running towards the dragon. He rolls forward to dodge another fireball as it’s spat at him.

“She’ll be weak against cold spells!” Morrigan shouts at Fletcher.

“How convenient!” he yells back as he casts a lightning spell in the dragon’s general direction. “I’ve spent most of my life freezing my arse off in Ferelden, so I don’t know any cold spells!”

Archer makes it to the dragon and starts to slash away at her left rear limb. He jumps back time and time again, warding off kicks and wing slaps until she smacks him hard across his abdomen with the base of her tail, sending him flying meters away. His back hits a stone pillar, and he slides down to the floor somewhat dazed.

“Archer!” Fletcher rushes over to him, but is stopped and sent flying back when the dragon buffets him hard with her wings.

“Come on, boys, we have a dragon to tame,” Morrigan says while casting an icy stream of magic right at the dragon’s head.

The dragon shrieks and Archer pushes himself back up onto his feet. As he runs towards her, he pushes the end of his blade into the earth and hurtles himself up into the air and on top of her head. But, before he can start to slash away at her, the dragon starts to fling her head from side to side. Archer grabs onto one of her cranial horns with both of his arms, dropping his sword to the ground below.

This isn’t the first time he’s had interactions with dragons. He fought two high dragons in Kirkwall when they overran his ridiculously poor investment, the Bone Pit. And he’s even fought a dragon or two with his Inquisition group. But his most notable experience was raising a baby dragon with – or, more accurately, _despite_ – Anders. And that was just about as much of a headache as this encounter is becoming.

“A little help here?” Archer yells down at his mage companions. The dragon has stopped thrashing around her head, but she has now taken flight several meters off of the ground.

Despite the blows coming from Fletcher and Morrigan below, the dragon seems to remain mostly unscathed and mostly annoyed at what’s happening to her. She looks upward, causing Archer’s legs to dangle downward, and then she takes off high into the sky.

“FUCK FUCK FUCK!” Archer screams. He’s holding on with all of his might, eyes shut as tight as he can possibly get them. “I don’t want to be a dragon any more, I swear!”

The dragon screams and swoops downward again, raining embers down upon the mages. Before she can make it back to the ground, she turns upward once more. Archer feels himself starting to lose his grip on her horn until it’s one hand, then four fingers, then two. Then he’s falling backwards.

“ARCHER!” Fletcher screams. He runs towards the center of the area, peering up helplessly at his boyfriend.

As he plummets down towards the ground, Archer reaches out blindly and manages to grab onto one of the dragon’s tail spikes. His arm is nearly yanked out of its socket, but he holds on for dear life. As she straightens out, he manages to run up her back.

Both mages work to cast spells at the dragon’s wings. Eventually they weaken her enough that she is forced to land firmly on the ground. Fletcher runs over to Archer’s sword, dodging some fire in the process, and tosses it up to him with all his might.

Archer just barely catches it by the hilt and turns it downward quickly to pierce the dragon’s neck between two shimmering scales. The beast screams out and throws her head back, effectively launching Archer right off of her once more.

This time he’s ready for it, and he manages to land on his feet. He turns around and lunges forward just as the dragon swirls around again. Archer turns his blade at just the right moment, and he’s able to cut off a large spike on the end of her tail. She screams once more and turns her body 180 degrees, huge roaring maw just centimeters away from him. Archer yells and lifts his sword to try to stab her directly in an eye.

But before he can touch her, the dragon is thrown back so effortlessly it’s as though a child has thrown a stuffed toy across a room. Archer looks over and sees both of Fletcher’s arms outstretched towards the dragon, covered in his own blood. As Fletcher walks forward in her direction, he drips along the grass, painting the field red.

The dragon cowers as Fletcher approaches her, bending her head down in submission. Fletcher dips a finger into the blood running down his left forearm, and he paints an arcane symbol upon her the scales between her nostrils. She shrieks and the blood marked upon her starts to glow a bright green. The mage moves to the side, and the dragon walks away from him before taking flight out of their view above the treetops.

“Andraste’s arse, Fletcher,” Archer mutters, running to his lover. He can’t stare at anything but his arms, still dripping far too much blood for his liking.

Fletcher puts his hands up to keep Archer back, and he starts to heal his arms one at a time. “I’m not the best healer, but you don’t get this deep into blood magic without learning to patch yourself up.”

“I gather the dragon will help us,” Morrigan states. She holds a hand out over Fletcher’s right forearm and helps him heal more quickly.

“She will help,” Fletcher says. “She’ll come when I summon her, but only once.”

“I never thought I’d get to have a dragon again,” Archer whispers, quite excitedly.

“What’s that, Archer?” Fletcher asks.

“I-uh, nothing, Love. Let’s get back to Skyhold.”

~oOo~

By unspoken agreement, the three of them returned to Skyhold as quickly as possible. Archer and Fletcher did everything they could to keep from talking to each other too much. There were a lot of things they needed to discuss and exchange, and doing so in front of someone like Morrigan wasn’t the greatest idea ever. She was still coming down from her resentment for Fletcher after he drank from the well, and also dealing with the fact that her mother, who she clearly has a tumultuous relationship with, is host to the elven goddess Mythal.

By the time they returned, Fletcher had managed to heal his arms up enough that the marks left by his dagger were barely visible at all.

Before retreating to his bedchambers for the night, Archer solidified a plan with his advisors in order to locate Corypheus’s dragon in hopes that it would lead them to a base of operations. He also checked in with Morrigan and Kieran to make sure she was holding up after the events at the altar.

Archer climbs the steps into his room and finds Fletcher sitting on the edge of their bed. He’s playing with the edge of the duvet cover, and he barely looks up even as Archer approaches him.

“Why didn’t you tell me you had met Mythal?” Fletcher asks.

“I didn’t _know_ I had met Mythal,” Archer explains. “I’d barely even heard of her before all this, and most of what I know is from what we learned at the Well of Sorrows and… well, after actually speaking to her. Don’t you think I’d tell you something like that?”

Fletcher stands up and looks up at him. “I don’t know, Archer. I mean, I’ve told you so much about myself, and I really don’t know as much about you. I’d think meeting someone like her, even just as Flemeth, would be a good story to share with someone you love.”

“You know plenty about me,” Archer says while crossing his arms. “I told you about how I grew up, who I’m related to…that I don’t like horses…” As he thinks about it, he realizes he hasn’t really told the other man much, mostly because telling him anything else would just be another lie.

“Those are things everyone knows about you,” Fletcher says, his frustration coming through clearly. “I know you intimately, of course, but I don’t want to feel like everyone else could recite everything fact about you just as well as I could. It’s ridiculous that I know more about people in Varric’s book than I do about you.”

_It’s ridiculous that you know so much about me while not knowing it’s about me._

“I’m sorry that I can’t be Hawke, Fletcher!” Archer isn’t sure how he means it – sorry that he’s not living up to Fletcher’s romanticized version of his past or that he can’t be honest with him. Perhaps it’s both.

“I don’t want Hawke, I want _you_! I just want you to love me and trust me and let me really know you,” Fletcher says, slightly shoving Archer back.

“You want to know me?” Archer frowns at him and then pushes him back hard so he falls on the bed. He climbs over him, straddling him with all of his weight down so that Fletcher can’t move his lower body. “Then what you need to know about me is that I’ve been holding back with you because I don’t want to scare you off like I might have the last guy. I’m not a nice guy, Fletcher. And I don’t take orders or requests from anyone. If you get something from me, it’s because you earn it, alright?”

Fletcher looks up at him, mouth slightly agape.

“I said ‘alright?’!”

Fletcher answers him with a moan as he leans up quickly and crashes their lips together.


	27. Chapter 27

“Get undressed,” Archer barks at Fletcher after he’s pulled back and away from the kiss.

He gets off of Fletcher so he can actually do as he’s told, and he watches hungrily as his tunic falls to the floor. Archer follows suit and takes off his finery.

“You’re going to tell me if you’re uncomfortable, otherwise you don’t get to say anything other than my name, expletives, or how good it all feels. Got it?” Archer tilts his head down to kiss him again, and he’s met with a hard nip to his lower lip. He laughs and grabs Fletcher’s ass with both of his hands, squeezing him hard.

“I understand,” Fletcher says with a slight roll to his eyes.

“Get on the bed. Hands and knees,” Archer orders.

Fletcher bites his bottom lip and pauses for a moment, but then he does as he’s asked by getting onto the center of the bed. He has his hands and knees on the bed, but he sits back with his legs under him.

Archer climbs up onto the bed and grabs his boyfriend’s hip. He grips onto him hard and pulls him up and forward until he’s in the position he asked him to be in.

“Stay,” he orders as he gets off of the bed. He walks over to his desk and pulls out a vial of oil before bringing it back to the bed. He opens the cork on the top of the vial, and the sweet scent of cinnamon hits his nose.

“I’ve been waiting to use this with you,” Archer says as he pours a few drops of oil in between Fletcher’s crack. He quickly corks the vial and catches the oil on his fingers before it falls to the bed.

“It’s got a bit of heat to it. I figured it would make you flush a bit more and make the freckles on your shoulders stand out a bit more.” He pushes both his right index and middle fingers into Fletcher and feels him shudder against his touch.

Fletcher hangs his head and grips into the duvet cover with his nails at the sensation, both familiar and foreign at the same time. “You like my freckles?”

Archer grips the back of Fletcher’s neck with his left hand and pushes down hard enough to cause Fletcher’s upper body to make contact with the bed. “I thought you said you understood. I never said you could ask questions.”

“You’re an arsehole,” Fletcher murmurs. He stretches his hands out towards the headboard and pushes his ass up as far as he can, trying to make better contact with Archer’s fingers which are teasing right next to his prostate.

“You know that about me already,” Archer says with a smirk. He leans over the other man, his chest pressed against Fletcher’s back, and he gently kisses along the freckles splattered along his shoulders. “And yes, I absolutely adore your freckles.”

Archer presses his fingertips down firmly against Fletcher’s prostate, and his smile widens as he hears him release an intoxicating moan. It encourages him to move his fingers in and out of him for a few minutes, occasionally pressing against that delicate spot again.

“I think you’re about ready,” Archer says after pulling his fingers out and looking at the hard cock between Fletcher’s legs. He gives it a few good strokes before getting off of the bed.

He grabs two belts within the pile of their shed clothing still lying on the floor. Had this been a few years ago, Archer wouldn’t have been able to do anything like this without having the clothes neatly folded and off to the side, but years of living on the run have forced him to shed some of his more tedious compulsions.

With the belts in hand, Archer walks along the side of the bed near the headboard. Fletcher’s face is turned towards him, but he hasn’t dared move his body. Archer bends to kiss him briefly, and then he wraps one of the belts tightly around Fletcher’s wrists. He takes the other belt and loops it around a wooden slat in the headboard, and he buckles it so that it also loops around the belt restraining Fletcher’s wrists. go.

“You’re still alright with all this?” Archer asks as he gets on the bed behind Fletcher.

The mage tests the belts by tugging against them a few times, and it’s clear that there’s no getting out of it until he’s physically allowed to.

“Yes,” he says. “Fuck me, Archer.”

Archer smacks him on the ass so hard that a red handprint shows up almost immediately. Fletcher whimpers.

“I told you – no orders or requests,” Archer says.

“Sorry, Love, I thought that counted as an expletive.”

Archer laughs and starts to pour some of the new oil onto his cock. “Nice try. Lucky for you, fucking you is exactly what I want, and I don’t think I can wait another minute.”

With his cock slicked up, Archer positions himself behind Fletcher, and gives absolutely no pause before pushing himself inside of the other man completely to the hilt. His groan of pleasure is nearly drowned out by the gasp coming from the other man. He grabs onto Fletcher’s hips and starts to move, pulling himself out almost entirely before sinking right back in as far as he possibly can.

Archer leans over Fletcher, his chest flat against his back. His left arm snakes under the mage’s upper body, and his hand grips onto his shoulder. He kisses and nips at the skin on the back of Fletcher’s neck, and then he tugs against one of the piercings in his cartilage with his teeth.

“You want to know more about me, kid?” Archer asks, not expecting an answer. “I might be rough, but I love with everything that I have. I would go to every corner of Thedas to have you happy. I would tear down every city… I would drown us in blood to keep you safe.”

The words flow out of him before he realizes they’re Anders’ words. His heart sinks at the thought, but he doesn’t regret it. At least coming from his lips, he knows they’re true.

He reaches between them and grabs Fletcher’s cock. He strokes it up and down with the rhythm of his own thrusts. Fletcher lets out another groan and pulls hard against the belts as he starts to come.

Archer continues to move until the mage finally finishes, and then he pulls out so that he can finish by his own hand because he knows Fletcher hates the alternative.

Once he’s come down from his own release, Archer wipes his hand on the soiled duvet and gets off of the bed. He walks to the headboard to release the belt, and then he carefully undoes the one around his lover’s wrists. He helps a shaky Fletcher off of the bed, and he holds his body tight against him, gently rubbing his upper back.

“I love you, and I trust you,” he whispers to Fletcher before kissing the crook of his neck. “I’ll try to open up more.”

“If that’s what ‘opening up’ is, you can do that any time,” Fletcher says with a chuckle.

Archer lets go of him and pulls the duvet off of the bed, so that the two of them can lay down under the blankets. He lays on his side, and Fletcher cuddles up behind him.

“Will you tell me about how you met Mythal now?” Fletcher asks, the last words a bit muddled by a yawn.

Archer holds onto Fletcher’s arms, which are wrapped around him, and he yawns too. He spent their time travelling back to Skyhold from the Arbor Wilds trying to come up with a reasonable story about how he could have meet her, but he isn’t sure how likely of a tale it would be. _Like anything concerning Mythal is likely, though…_

“When I was very little, I lived in a very small house with my mother off on the outskirts of Ostwick,” Archer begins. “One day, we went into the city to buy some bread, and my mother pointed to a large house. She told me that our family lived inside of the house, and we couldn’t live there because of choices my grandfather had made. Of course, I was too little to know that my mother meant that she was an illegitimate child, and I was even less aware of how illegitimate I was as well. And it made me sad because it seemed like such a beautiful, nice house while we lived in a cramped shithole.

“A few weeks later while coming home from another trip to the city, we found that our house had been burned to the ground. We had to live on the streets and in barns after that, and I felt bad about how much I had resented that tiny house. It got so bad when winter hit that my mother fell ill. She was so sick that she was near death. So, I started running to the city to tell our noble family to help my mother and let us live with them. But before I got there, I ran into Flemeth... and, I suppose, Mythal.

“I knew she had to be a witch because she knew why I was running and what I was trying to do. She told me that my plan wouldn’t work, but it _could_ work if I promised to help her. I was desperate, so I told her I would do whatever she wanted. She handed me a book of spells and told me that, if I hid the book on a ship headed for Ferelden, everything would work out.

“I did as she asked, and two days later, a man from the Trevelyan house came to collect my mother and I. She received medical care, and I received a proper education and noble upbringing in that large house that I had dreamed about.”

Archer waits for Fletcher to call him out on the stupidity of the tale, but it doesn’t happen. Instead, Fletcher asks him another question.

“Then what did she mean when she said you had failed to fly?”

Archer pauses, unsure of how to answer. “I-um. I think she meant that she had wanted it to be me who drank from the Well of Sorrows. Remember how she said that things don’t always play out how you’d expect? It has to be that.”

Fletcher is silent for several minutes before he speaks again. “I wonder if she hid herself in that book like she hid herself in the locket in Varric’s book. You could have basically sent her to Ferelden, putting her in the right place to meet Hawke and help him get to Kirkwall all those years ago.” He chuckles. “The Lady sure works in mysterious ways.”

Archer shakes his head in disbelief that he’s managed to keep this up. “Yeah… I guess she does.”

A little while passed in silence.

 “Hey Fletcher?” Archer asks.

“Hm?”

Archer wants so badly to tell him everything now, to finally get it all off of his chest. It feels so utterly wrong to lie to the person he loves, and he’s not sure it’s worth whatever safety he’s supposed to be crafting for himself and his advisors at this point.

But at the same time, Archer has started to feel less and less confident about their abilities to take down Corypheus. Dragon or no, this is something he’s failed to kill before, and this time he doesn’t have his A-team with him. If the world really is about to be destroyed, is it really worth angering his boyfriend with the truth? Perhaps it’s best to just have it end with their love and happiness intact.

“I love you,” Archer says finally.

“Love you, too.”


	28. Chapter 28

A few days later, Archer is called to have a meeting at the War Table.

The advisors’ efforts to locate Corypheus’ dragon have been completely unsuccessful. Leliana’s scouts believed that they may have found it, but it turned out to be just another high dragon nesting in the Hinterlands. Josephine received correspondence from the dwarves in Orzammar stating that there had been no unusual activity taking place down in the Deep Roads. And Cullen’s troops hadn’t encountered anyone from Corypheus’ camp while on patrol back from the Arbor Wilds.

“There’s got to be somewhere else we haven’t looked or someone else we haven’t talked to,” Archer says. “We haven’t talked to the Dalish yet, have we?”

“We’ve tried,” Josephine says. “My efforts to reach out to the Lavellan clan were largely unsuccessful. They’ve had enough trouble since the war broke out just keeping their own mages safe. They have no intention of getting involved in anything els-“

She’s cut off as green light floods the room, coming in from the windows behind the advisors. The anchor on Archer’s hand starts to pulse and grow brighter. For the first time in months, his head starts to hurt again.

Everyone turns their attention outside as loud thunder claps through the air. The clouds start to swirl around the scar left from the Breach, opening it up once again. It’s clear that their plan to find Corypheus first was for naught.

“Corypheus!” Archer grumbles through gritted teeth.

“ _He_ did that?” Leliana asks. “But why?”

“Either I close the breach again, or it swallows the world,” Archer explains.

Josephine gasps. “But that’s madness! Wouldn’t it kill him as well?”

“Inquisitor, we have no forces to send with you,” Cullen says. “We must wait for them to return from the Arbor Wilds.”

“Us being defenseless is exactly why he’s doing this now.” Archer rubs his forehead with his right hand before dropping it to his side as a fist. “I have to go now, before it’s too late. We’ll all be dead if we wait for the troops.” _We’re all going to be dead anyway, but I’m not going down without a fight._

Archer gathers every companion he has while Cullen rallies everybody within Skyhold who is willing to take up blade, bow, or staff to fight. As quickly as they can, they rush towards the Valley of Sacred Ashes outside of the fallen temple.

When they arrive, they find Corypheus who has slaughtered several Inquisition soldiers.

“I knew you would come,” Corypheus says upon seeing Archer, his gnarled mouth nearly making a smile.

“It ends here, Corypheus!” Archer spits at him.

“And so it shall.” Corypheus holds out his hands and red bursts of light form in his palms. He raises them up and sends up red streaks of lighting which start to raise the remaining structure around the temple into the air. Archer and his companions are thrown off balance, and many of them fall to the ground.

“You have been most successful in foiling my plans, but let us not forget what you are,” Corypheus says to Archer as he picks himself up off of the ground. “A child who tried to kill a would-be god. A thief, in the wrong place at the wrong time. An interloper. A gnat.” Corypheus moves closer to him. “We shall prove here, once and for all, which of us is worthy of godhood.”

“You’re so bloody dramatic, Corypheus!” Archer says while rolling his eyes. “I don’t want to be a god! I hardly want to be a leader… I’ve got enough people wanting me to save them or help them. I’d never hear the end of it if I was a god.

“What I want, old friend, is to kill you. Nothing more.”

Before either of them can say anything else, Corypheus’ dragon appears over the top of the crumbling temple wall.

“Fletcher, now!” Archer screams, but the command is unnecessary as Mythal’s dragon swoops in from the side and tackles Corypheus’ dragon.

“You dare…” Corypheus groans.

“I sure as shit do.” Archer can’t help but smile.

The dragons fly high into the sky. Fire on fire, tooth on tooth, they fight each other.

Archer watches for only a moment before he feels his hand pulse. He runs after Corypheus along with his group, and together they unleash everything they have on him.

It feels like blow after blow is barely touching the ancient magister while the attacks against Archer feel as though they’re hurting more by the second. He hears some of the plate metal on his chest armor crack in two, and he leaps to the side before he gets hit with a devastating blow.

As he hides in the shadows, he panics. The rest of his friends are fighting hard, but he knows they can’t keep it up for long. Even with multiple warriors, rogues, and mages, they really aren’t quite the match they would have hoped to be against Corypheus. Archer knows in his heart that they will fall, but he doesn’t want it to be like this.

“Archer,” Fletcher calls, rushing over to him. He sees the crack in his boyfriend’s armor, and he quickly holds a palm out over it. Sleek black stone seals over the crack.

“What is it?” Archer asks, jumping up to his feet.

“Obsidian,” Fletcher says. “You’ll have to guard yourself still; it won’t hold forever.” 

Both men rush back out into the ruins and chase after the rest of their group which has Corypheus cornered in the middle of the temple. The dragons zoom around them in the air, chasing after each other upward and upward. Mythal’s dragon shoots up towards the Breach, and then quickly turns back, slamming herself into Corypheus’ dragon. But the latter takes hold of Mythal’s dragon and slams her into the ground. She lies there, unmoving.

“She’s dead!” Cassandra screams.

Corypheus laughs and moves backwards, allowing his own dragon to take a stand in front of the Inquisition group. Archer rushes forward towards her, the rest of his companions following his lead. The mages, Varric, and Sera all attack her wings from a distance, filling them with enough holes to keep her from flying. The warriors and dual-wielders rush to attack her legs until she can hardly hobble around.

With her being weakened enough, Archer braves climbing on top of her, and he sinks his greatsword through the center of her head, piercing her brain. Her body goes completely limp under him, and he twists his sword once for good measure.

As he hops off the dragon’s lifeless body, a red ball of energy leaves her core and flies upward to the highest reaches of the remaining temple.

“Let it end here!” Corypheus roars from above while holding the orb up in the air. “Let the skies boil! Let the world be rent asunder!”

Archer and his companions run up step after step to make it to him. All the while, the breach in the sky is getting bigger. Red and green lightning strikes the ground around them, and Archer has to dodge and roll out of the way to avoid being hit.

“Everyone, run! Run, go!” Archer commands. He will not put them at risk if he doesn’t have to.

As his companions do as he asks, Archer runs around the perimeter of the temple and climbs up the outside of a crumbling pillar. A few stones fall as he grabs onto them, and he fights to keep moving up and up.

Finally, he makes it to the top, and he leaps down with the end of his greatsword pointed right at Corypheus’ core. He stabs him with all the force he can muster, and his weapon goes straight through his enemy.

“Not like this!” Corypheus wails, falling to his knees. “I have walked the halls of the Golden City, crossed the ages…Dumat! Ancient ones! I beseech you!”

Archer pulls his greatsword out of Corypheus, and he holds out his left hand. The anchor glows brighter than it ever has before as he points it at the orb.

“If you exist,” Corypheus pleads, orb shaking in his hand, “if you ever truly existed, aid me now!”

The orb rips from his hand and flies at Archer who just barely catches it in his left hand up against the anchor. Corypheus falls down on the ground as Archer holds his hand straight up, a beam of green light shooting up at the breach. For the second time, it starts swirl inward until it starts to close.

Archer drops the orb to the ground and walks over to Corypheus.

“You wanted into the Fade? Then go!” Archer holds the anchor out to him and watches him start to break into a million pieces before imploding in on himself.

His headache stops. But the temple around them starts to fall apart, falling back down to the ground.

As the sky closes and the stones stop falling, Archer finds himself alone in the quiet ruins. He picks himself up off of the floor and starts to look around when he notices Solas slowly walking over to the destroyed orb, which is lying among a pile of rocks.

“Solas?” Archer asks, walking over to him.

“The orb,” Solas says, his voice filled with sadness.

“So much of the elven culture has been lost or stolen from you…I understand why you wanted to save such an important artifact,” Archer says. “Is there anything we can do to repair it?”

“It is not _your_ fault,” Solas says. “You and I have not been close, and I certainly did not approve of your lover’s actions at the Well of Sorrows. But I do not hold you accountable for any of this.”

Before Archer has a chance to respond, he hears footsteps behind him.

“Archer!” Fletcher yells. He runs over to him, and the two men embrace. Fletcher looks down at Archer’s chest plate, and he smiles when he sees it still intact because of the stone he had placed.

Archer turns around to see all of his companions, seemingly alive and well, and he nearly drops to his knees in relief. _For once you’ve managed to save everyone_ …

“We won!” Cole remarks, smiling. “And the sky is healed, healthy…whole. There’s just that left to remember.” He points up to the small scar from the breach left up above.

“Looks that way,” Archer says, walking down a set of stairs to join his friends, Fletcher at his side.

“What do we do now?” Cassandra asks.

Archer looks back and sees that Solas has disappeared. He turns back to his companions. “We go back home… back to Skyhold.”


	29. Chapter 29

Archer walks with Fletcher, hand in hand, on their way back to Skyhold. His companions all follow closely behind, and, though beaten and tired, they can hardly contain their excitement upon seeing the rest of the Inquisition within the bailey. Perhaps not all of them were as pessimistic about the situation as Archer has been, but he knows that each of them is surprised about how smoothly everything went.

After being welcomed back with open arms and cheers for all, Archer walks up the steps to the castle to meet his advisors. Leliana pulls him to the side and asks him for a moment of her time.

“My agents have found no trace of Solas. He has simply vanished,” she explains. “If he does not wish to be found, there’s likely nothing we can do. But I will keep looking.”

“I’m not sure that he had any real reason to stay after all of this came to an end. We weren’t exactly on the best of terms, he and I,” Archer remarks. “And he took the broken orb with him. Perhaps he’s just trying to find a way to piece it back together… gone off to seek help from the Dalish?”

“Perhaps, though I still find it peculiar,” Leliana says. “And we’ll check in with Clan Lavellan again, but I’m not sure they’ll be any more helpful than they’ve been in the past. We may have to turn to the more northern clans. Are there any left in the Sabrae clan?”

Archer shrugs and starts to walk into the main hall. “I’m not sure that it’s really important, Leliana.” He avoids the topic of Merrill’s clan altogether. “Especially not right now. Can’t we just take a break for a moment? Then we can figure out where to go from here. And then we can discuss how to break it to the world that Archer Hawke, renegade warrior and renowned atheist, is their savior.”

“You’re joking,” Leliana says while grabbing his arm to stop him. “You surely can’t be serious.”

“I never joke about _anything_ ,” Archer says, pulling his arm away from her. “We can’t keep this up any longer. At the very last, _I_ can’t keep this up any longer. Do you know how hard it’s been to lie to the man I love every single day? How hard it is not to be able to reminisce with Varric or Miguel like I should be able to? Maker, I can’t even hug my sister when I see her!”

“Of course, I know how hard it is!” Leliana hisses at him, trying not to call attention from the growing party inside of the hall. “We’ve had an extremely hard time keep this up as well, but it’s been for the greater good, Archer. If we had let this information come to light before we had gathered our allies or defeated Corypheus, faith in our order would have been destroyed and we wouldn’t have been able to stop him… or save the world.”

Archer crosses his arms. “I get why we kept it a secret, I do. But now that it’s over, why should we keep it up? We’ve already got the respect of everyone in Thedas. Maker, people actually even respect Cullen now which is a feat in itself.”

“Leave Cullen alone.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

“Then will you at least think about this from another perspective?” Leliana asks.

“And what perspective might that be?”

Leliana lowers her voice. “You know that I’m a candidate for the next Divine, correct?”

“Yes,” Archer replies. “And you know you’ve got my support. As much as I utterly loath the Chantry – _full offense_ – I think that you would handle it far better than anyone else. You care about people, not just the Chantry.”

“Exactly,” Leliana says. “And you know that caring about people means that I care about all people equally, mages included. It is my desire and intention, as Divine, to abolish the Circles entirely and allow the mages to self-govern. No reformation; just freedom. Is that not also _your_ desire? _Anders’_ desire?”

Archer furrows his brow. “Are you… are you blackmailing me?”

“Not at all,” she says, shaking her head. “I just want you to think about it logically. I was in on this lie from the start. If it comes out, I’ll either not be appointed Divine at all, or I’ll be stripped of my title as soon as it’s learned. The other two candidates, Cassandra and Vivienne, know nothing of this lie and won’t risk the same fate.”

“And they’re both likely to restore the Circles and establish new Templar Orders.” Archer closes his eyes and sighs, understanding the severity of the situation.

“Ultimately, we’ll both get what we want. I know it hasn’t been easy, but it will become easier. After all, being Archer Trevelyan really hasn’t been that bad for you, has it?”

“It hasn’t been, other than the overwhelming guilt I feel every time I look at Fletcher,” Archer says.

“I cannot force you to keep this from him or from anyone else. But I need you to consider the whole picture and what risks need to be assessed before you do something like that. Love is not always forever. This is something both you and I know.”

Leliana has never gone into it with Archer, but he knows enough about the Hero of Ferelden to speculate. The man was known to play with the hearts of many of his companions, but ultimately ended up giving his own to an Antivan assassin. Archer has often wondered if Leliana was hurt by him, and he speculates that part of her animosity towards Morrigan has something to do with a love triangle that ended with neither of them the victor.

“Sometimes it’s best to put the past behind you,” she continues. “You don’t have to forget about it, but sometimes you just have to let go in order to have a future.”

Archer looks out into the crowded hall where all of the Inquisition, his companions ncluded, are feasting and celebrating. He looks over by the throne and sees Fletcher perched on one of its arms, patiently waiting for him. He feels secure in their relationship now more than ever, but he’s felt something like this before that didn’t pan out the way he had hoped. Perhaps he can wait just a little while longer. Let Leliana become the Divine and see how it all plays out.

“Go on and celebrate, Inquisitor,” Leliana insists. “We have but a moment to stop and catch our breaths. Afterwards you will be busy. Every noble in Southern Thedas is clamoring to meet you.”

“Well, naturally; I did just save the world,” Archer says, smirking. “All the nobles, though? House Trevelyan included?”

Leliana chuckles. “Josie will ensure that we can’t make those appointments. Now go and enjoy the evening while you can. We’ll speak later.”

Archer makes his way, slowly but surely, through the great hall. He stops to chat with each of his friends, and he shakes the hands of just about every other Inquisition member who can make their way over to him. But ultimately, he finds himself right where he wants to be.

“Lord Inquisitor!” Fletcher mocks, getting off of the arm of the throne. He takes an exaggerated bow. “Making time for a lowly barbarian such as myself? I am honored.”

Archer smirks and takes his hand, pulling it to him to kiss at the tattoos on his knuckles. “Other than a much-needed meal, you’re really all I have time for.”

Fletcher hugs him close, and Archer returns it, breathing in deeply and ending it with a happy sigh.

“I hear that Varric wants to write all of this and put it in a new book,” Archer says.

Fletcher laughs. “What, and call it _Tales of the Inquisitor_?”

“Maybe,” Archer says. “And then perhaps you’ll finally have a new hero to worship.”

“I never worshiped Hawke,” Fletcher says, rolling his eyes. “And I won’t worship you either. But you are my hero.”

Archer can’t help but smile. Maybe it really is better to keep everything like this without telling Fletcher the truth.

“So, what now?” he asks.

“We eat.”

“No, after that.”

“We make love?” Fletcher asks.

Archer laughs and shakes his head. He thinks the term funny. “I mean after that, too.”

“We find something else in Thedas to save, I suppose,” Fletcher says. “Or retire off to some tiny house on the outskirts of Ostwick. I don’t really care as long as we’re together.”

Archer bites the inside of his cheek, desperately trying to check his emotions. “Sounds good, kid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've made it through the main game, but we've got Trespasser and a bunch more to get through! All of the tags haven't come through yet :)
> 
> Thanks so much for keep up with me this far! The best is yet to come!


	30. Chapter 30

Two years have passed since Archer and his Inquisition defeated Corypheus and closed the Breach. The Inquisition has remained intact, and its forces have grown far too large for the liking of the countries in which the Inquisition operates. Orlais, under Celene’s rule, wishes that the Inquisition had more oversight under Divine Victoria. Ferelden, on the other hand, wishes for the organization to be disbanded entirely.

Archer and his advisors want neither of those options, wishing to remain a fairly autonomous organization in order to bring about peace wherever it should be needed. Together they meet once again at the Winter Palace in Halamshiral for an Exalted Council to discuss their fate.

Upon arriving to the palace, Archer finds himself out in the courtyard with time to relax and mingle before the Council meets. In addition to his advisors, all of Archer’s companions have agreed to meet up and take part in the council proceedings. For the past two years, all of them have still remained with the Inquisition, but they have been allowed to venture off and see to other needs and jobs of their choosing.

The Iron Bull and his Chargers have taken up a few odd jobs around the Waking Sea. Miguel has even officially joined the Chargers, fighting alongside them whenever he’s not crafting for the Inquisition. Dorian has been spending more and more time back in Tevinter, rallying for change as he prepares to take up a post in the Magisterium. Even Cole has occupied his time, becoming ever more human as he courts the tavern bard, Maryden.

While in the courtyard, the first person Archer sees is his dear friend Varric standing alongside a chestnut-haired man by the central fountain.

“Inquisitor! Andaste’s ass, am I ever glad to see you!” Varric smiles wide as he rushes to him, giving him a hearty pat on his mid back.

“It’s been too long, Varric,” Archer says. He looks over to the other man, and his eyes go wide, recognizing him.

“Don’t worry,” Varric says. “He already knows.”

Archer furrows his brow. “And _why_ does he know?”

“You don’t have to talk to me as if I’m not here, Champion,” the man says in hushed whisper.

“Bran knows because we’ve done a bit of swapping jobs. Until recently, he was the Viscount-“

“ _Provisional_ Viscount,” Bran interrupts.

“…of Kirkwall. He’s resumed his post as seneschal now that I’ve been elected Viscount. Being that he’s essentially my right hand, I figured it was fair that he was in the know. He needed to come here with me, and it’s not like we weren’t about to run into you.” Varric laughs. “Hair style change and tattoo removal aside, you’ve still got that same beautiful face we know and love.”

“It is a good face,” Archer agrees.

“I know we were never on the best of terms during out time together in Kirkwall. And I wasn’t exactly pleased with how you left the city,” Bran says. “But you’ve saved Thedas, and for that, you have my loyalty and secrecy. So long as you don’t start some other war....”

“I never started a war, Bran, and neither did Anders.” It’s been six years since he last saw the mage, and he can just now say his name without getting slightly upset. “But I appreciate that. I don’t take it lightly.”

Archer turns back to Varric. “I thought I’d heard a little something about you making Viscount. I wanted to hear it from the dwarf himself before I believed it.”

“It turns out, if you fund enough reconstruction efforts in a city-state, the nobles there give you the worst job they can think of,” Varric says, shrugging. “I appreciate you letting me use your estate to pay for the bulk of it.”

“Should _I_ be Viscount then?” Letting the Amell estate funds go towards the reconstruction efforts was the least Archer could think to do. While he completely agreed and supported Anders’ actions, he wanted to see the city whole again, even if he couldn’t really return. After all, it was the place that was the catalyst for everything his life had become.

Varric laughs at him. “They voted me in because I got the harbor and businesses up and running again. They want shit fixed, and I can do that.

“Anyway, I was hoping I’d catch you before the summit got underway. I got you a sort of present.” Varric hands Archer a small brass key and a far larger one.

“Varric is this?”

“The key to your estate,” Varric answers for him. “Look, I know you probably can’t come back. But I want you to know that the place is back to its former glory and open to you if you ever want to sneak back in. For old time’s sake.”

“I think perhaps it should go to Bethany,” Archer says. His sister was never granted the opportunity to live in the estate, and it seems only fair that someone who can actually return to the city have it.

Varric smiles. “Don’t worry, Hawke, she’s got a key too. She’s been busy though and isn’t likely to be there much. And she insisted you have a key yourself.”

Archer doesn’t know what to say. But he smiles weakly at the other man and pockets it.

“But,” Varric continues, “considering everything you’ve done for Thedas – and Kirkwall considering it’s part of Thedas – it would only make sense to give you the larger key, regardless of who you _really_ are. It’s official recognition of your title and holdings in Kirkwall. Congratulations! You’re a comte now.”

Bran crosses his arms. “You can’t actually do that without-“

“Too late!” Varric smirks. “Already did it!”

“But you can’t give away the key to the city without approval from the council and a special ceremony! None of them would allow Hawke to have it after everythin-“

“Bran, shut up,” Varric barks at him. “Hawke did more good for the city than he did bad. And, besides, it’s under the named ‘Trevelyan anyway.’ But we don’t have to worry about the council even so; I’ve got rank. Regardless, it’s just symbolic anyway.”

“It controls one of the giant chain nets in the harbor,” Bran states.

“Really?” Varric asks. “That… is so much better than I thought!”

Archer smirks. “Don’t worry, Bran. I’m quite skilled with chains and all sorts of other types of bindings.”

The seneschal blushes before throwing his hands up in the air in frustration. He walks off.

“Look,” Varric says when Bran is finally out of earshot. “You need to be careful today. Word has it that the two people arguing against you are people we’ve met before. Briefly, but they’ve seen that beautiful mug of yours. We’ve got enough trouble brewing here, so play it off as best you can.

“And I don’t know how this council thing is going to end for the Inquisition. But you and I have far too much history to be done with each other. Whether you feel like you can come back or not, you’ve got a place lined up in Kirkwall, and… control of the harbor, I guess.”

“Varric, I don’t think I could ever be done with you.” Archer pats him on the shoulder. “I’ve got to go meet with the diplomats and see if I can find Leliana before all of this starts. Fletcher promised he’d make it, too. But let’s get in a game of Wicked Grace before you go back to Kirkwall, alright?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

~oOo~

Archer makes his way around the courtyard chatting it up with many of his old friends. Sera and Blackwall – now Thom – seem to be getting on well. And Archer even enjoys some time relaxing alongside Vivienne. But he can’t help but smile when he sees the next person on his list to catch up with.

“Divine Victoria. Am I interrupting?”

Leliana, the new Divine since a month after Corypheus’ defeat, is dressed head to toe in a long white gown with red and gold accents. She smiles at him as she finishes up some conversation with a stern looking man to her right.

“Of course not, Inquisitor,” she says. “I was catching up with Redcliffe’s arl. He is here to represent Ferelden at the summit.”

“Inquisitor,” the staunch-faced arl says towards him. He stares at him for a moment, his eyes thinning But then he shakes his head. “Good to meet you. I am Teagan Guerrin.”

“Likewise,” Archer says. Immediately he realizes that this is one of the people Varric was referring too. They’ve met before, briefly, at the Chateau Haine in Orlais several years ago. They spoke for less than a minute, but Teagan had recognized him then immediately as the Champion. Luckily, it seems as though he’s changed enough to throw Teagan off.

“How are things in Redcliffe, my lord?”

“Blessedly quiet,” Teagan replies. “The mayor coveys his greetings. Redcliffe remembers its savior.”

Archer smiles. “Saving Redcliffe was nothing; saving all of Thedas was the real feat. The Inquisition really has been the most important organization of the age, hasn’t it? I would say the Wardens, but we know how that turned out.”

Teagan furrows his brows at him.

“Anyway, I had hoped to steal a moment of the Divine’s time,” Archer says.

“Very well,” the arl says before turning back to Leliana. “We’ll continue later, Your Perfection.” He bows and then promptly leaves.

“Many are frightened of the Inquisition’s power, but I will do all I can to allay their fears,” Leliana says.

“I honestly wasn’t sure how I wanted this council to go before getting here,” Archer admits. “Part of me would feel a bit relieved to have it disbanded so I can just go on with my life. But it’s people who want to impose their will over me and my friends who have me wanting us to stay afloat if only to spite them.”

Leliana chuckles. “Perhaps more pure intentions would be best, but I can hardly blame you. I, personally, think it best if the Inquisition stays intact under my rule. You can continue to help the world, and that way, neither Orlais nor Ferelden can touch you.”

“You know I appreciate all you’ve done as Divine,” Archer says sincerely. “But I will never be comfortable being governed by the Chantry, even if it’s in your name.”

“Consider what is best for all of the other Inquisition members and the whole of Thedas before you ultimately decide.” Leliana smiles at him. “We’ve already accomplished much together, and I fear what could be overlooked if we disband.

“I may no longer be your spymaster, but I am always here if you require.” With that, Leliana bows to him, and Archer does so in return.

Archer turns and looks around the courtyard, trying to spot who to go over to next. In the distance, he thinks he sees bright, familiar hair, and his whole body wells up with happiness. _Fletcher..._


	31. Chapter 31

Beaming, Archer starts to walk towards his boyfriend who doesn’t seem to notice him at this distance. It’s been several months since they’ve seen each other as Fletcher has taken some time to visit the new hold established by his adoptive Avvar clan. The two have written letter after letter to each other, and Archer has greatly anticipated their reunion.

Before he can make it a mere few meters towards the other man, Teagan catches his attention.

“I’m glad you’ve finally arrived, Inquisitor,” he says. “The crown’s anxious for news.”

“I think I already know, but I’d love your thoughts on Ferelden’s position,” Archer says.

Teagan purses his lips. “The breach is long gone, yet Skyhold’s army remains. Ferelden can’t continue to ignore soldiers on its borders.”

“The Inquisition _has_ grown,” Archer says, “but we’ve done nothing to threaten you. Most of the Inquisition is made up of Fereldans.” He’s included in that, but he’s done his best to play the part of the Marcher he’s supposed to be for several years now.

“For the safety of her people, Anora demands, at the very least, a reduction of your military forces. A power without allegiance to either Ferelden or Orlais? Even I see neither of our countries can let it rest.”

“I can assure you we’re no threat to Orlais either,” Archer states, crossing his arms. “Did we not help end the civil war here?”

“Helped…or perhaps meddled where you weren’t needed?” Teagan suggests.

Archer scoffs. “I suppose if you would have preferred Celene to be assassinated, we might not have been needed.”

“How dare you suggest-“

“I suggest nothing,” Archer says, cutting him off, “but the notion that the Inquisition is a force of good for all of the South, if not the whole of Thedas. Is there anything else _you_ would like to suggest, arl?”

Teagan frowns at him. “No. I won’t keep you any longer. We’ll have words enough when the exalted Council begins.”

“Oh, how I look forward to it,” Archer mutters as Teagan leaves.

Archer turns back to look where he spotted Fletcher previously, but his love is nowhere to be seen. He looks around the courtyard and is unable to see him still, so he resigns himself to searching on foot. On his way across the courtyard, he does his best to avoid Cullen, helps the Chargers present Bull with a birthday gift, and manages to spot Cassandra overlooking the valley at the far edge of the property.

“Contemplating your existence, seeker?”

Cassandra turns around as she hears his voice, and she backs up with an exasperated gasp.

“Is everything alright?” Archer asks.

“Yes! Well…” she averts his gaze from him. “I…wanted to speak to you. And now you’re here.”

Archer takes a step towards her. “I assure you, I’m not back in Halamshiral because I _want_ to be. But, alas, I’m here. And happy to be in friendly company.”

Cassandra looks up at him. “I am glad to see you as well, Inquisitor.”

“Then what’s troubling you?” he asks.

“It’s not about me,” she assures him. “It’s about you.”

Archer raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms. “What have I done now?”

Cassandra sighs. “Maybe you should sit.”

“I can stand.”

“Maybe _I_ should sit,” she clarifies.

For a brief moment, Archer panics. _Does she know who I really am? No… no, if she knew, she’d be trying to kill me, not stumbling over her words like a smitten school girl._

She sits down on a set of stairs to her left, and Archer cautiously sits down next to her.

“Inquisitor, I want you to know that I am your friend. I will always be your friend.”

_I’m not so sure about that,_ Archer thinks.

“So, I hope to give you sound advice on this momentous day,” Cassandra continues. “Do what is in your heart, my friend. No matter what anyone might tell you.”

_Sweet Maker, she knows. She’s just trying to lure me in, make me think it’s alright to tell her who I really am… and then she’ll slice me in half!_

“I just meant that I support you, of course,” she says. “I may not have been a fan of your relationship at first, but I can see that the two of you make each other happy!”

Archer blinks. “Wait, what? Maybe I should leave and come back. I think I missed the beginning.”

Cassandra groans and rolls her eyes. “I’m talking about marriage!”

“Marriage?!”

“Of course, Fletcher being Avvar – adopted or not – will raise eyebrows across the South, but if that is your…”

Archer stares at her, more confused than ever.

“You’re not proposing. To anyone.” Cassandra frowns and gets up off of the steps, and then she raises her fists, shaking them in anger. “I am going to kill Varric. Why do I believe everything he says? _Why?_ ”

Archer stands up. “Varric said I was going to propose?”

“He…mentioned a proposal.” Cassandra rubs the back of her neck. “I suppose I filled in the blanks. Or he did this on purpose. That dwarf gets entirely too much joy from my discomfort.”

“I… might get married,” Archer says quietly. “I mean, I’ve thought about it.”

That much was certainly true. On the nights he lay awake, longing for Fletcher, he wondered what it would be like to be bound to the other man. Part of him thinks it’s a good idea for selfish reasons because it would make it harder for Fletcher to ever leave him like Anders did. But, what he really wants is to be able to profess his love for him in the most ultimate of ways.

The real thing holding him back, however, has been this lie that’s haunted him for the last three years. Can he really dedicate himself to someone fully if they don’t really know who he is?

Cassandra turns to face him with found confidence. “I suspected as much. Being Inquisitor has brought you good things. Many good things. But only a few have been by your choice. Take what happiness you can from those, and do not let them go. That is all I meant to say. Advice from a friend, for the days to come.”

Archer lets out a shaky breath he’s been holding in, and, from the most unlikely of sources, he’s finally aware of what he has to do.

“Cassandra,” he says. “I want you to remember what you said today.”

“What’s that?”

“That you’ll always be my friend.” Archer moves forward to kiss her cheek quickly, and he pulls back with a smile.

Cassandra’s jaw drops just slightly, and she touches her cheek with her fingertips as she watches Archer run off.

Archer takes off towards the other end of the courtyard again, desperately searching around tents and hedges until, finally, he sees Fletcher sitting by himself on a lounge chair near a gaudy golden statue of a goat. He runs up a set of stairs and over to him, his stomping boots catching the mage’s attention.

“Hello, love,” Archer says.

Fletcher stands up and meets Archer for a warm embrace.  “By the Lady, I’ve missed you,” he says while pulling back.

Archer nods at him and bites his bottom lip. He’s terrified about how he’ll react, but he knows it’s now or never.

“Fletcher,” he says, taking the other man’s hand into his own. “I love you with everything that I am. I never knew that I could love…again. Not like this. And I want nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with you.”

Fletcher’s eyes dart back and forth, and a smile starts to form on his lips. “Archer...”

“I want you to be my husband, Fletcher,” he says. “Whatever happens because of the council is no worry to me as long as I have you by my side. But I can’t honorably ask for this unless I’m completely honest with you.”

Fletcher’s smile starts to fade a bit. “Honest about what, love?”

“Um,” Archer starts. He looks down for a moment and looks directly into Fletcher’s eyes. “I’m not a Trevelyan. I’m…I’m a Hawke. As in _that_ Hawke.”


	32. Chapter 32

Fletcher’s lips part slightly and he narrows his eyes. “Wait. You’re related to Hawke?”

“Yes,” Archer says. He shakes his head. “I mean, no. I _am_ Hawke.”

“Okay, you know how much I love Varric’s book, but this isn’t funny, Archer.”

“Kid, for once I’m being serious,” Archer says.

Fletcher frowns. “No.” He starts to pace around. “No? No, you’re really having me on. You can’t be serious.”

“Fletcher, look at me.” Archer waits until Fletcher stops, their eyes focused on one another. “I’m Archer Hawke. I was born in Ferelden to Malcom and Leandra Hawke. Brother to Bethany and Carver Hawke. Champion of Kirkwall. Former partner to the infamous apostate Anders… _that_ Hawke.”

Fletcher goes a little paler than usual. “No…you’ve just heard me talk about Hawke a million times. I-I don’t need this as part of a funny proposal, Archer. I’ll marry you, just…”

“I’m serious, Fletcher. I’m not going to make up something like that.”

Fletcher stares at him.

Archer stares back. “Say something…”

“How – no, why?” Fletcher finally blurts out. “Why didn’t you…it’s been years. _Years!_ You didn’t tell me after three bloody years?!”

“I know…I know how completely unfair it’s been for me to keep anything from you, let alone something so huge.” Archer looks over to see Dorian and Vivienne staring at them to his right. He waves them off and then pulls Fletcher by the arm over to a more secluded area. “I just-it wasn’t safe to tell you, Fletcher. It’s been on a need-to-know basis since the beginning, and I knew I couldn’t tell you until the time was right.”

“And this is the right time?” Fletcher scoffs, pulling his arm away from the other man.

“There is no right time,” Archer says. “But I can’t keep this from you anymore. I love you more than anything - fuck safety.”

“You didn’t think I’d need to know when we started this?!” Fletcher yells. “You didn’t think I needed to know before or after any one of the stupid, huge, nearly fatal things we’ve done? Who were you even protecting me from? Cassandra? Cullen?” He kicks a nearby planter, and it crumbles to the ground. “Do they even know?”

Archer leans back against a wall, physically unable to fully support himself while he processes the severity of the situation.

“Everything just kind of happened,” he explains. “It’s just the advisors and Varric who know, and they’ve known from the start. At first, we were keeping my identity safe because of Cassandra, but then it became apparent that we had to keep it a secret from everyone. I made a lot of enemies in Kirkwall, and I wasn’t going to be able to save the world with an even bigger target on my back.

“When we met and fell in love, it still wasn’t safe then. I didn’t know if you and I were going to make it. If we didn’t and you knew, it could compromise everything. So, I’ve been trying to decide an appropriate time to tell you, and this is as far as I got. It’s been a lie to everyone, not just you. I mean, I assume Cole knows because of his whole mind-reading thing. And Bull…Ben-Hassrath training and all...”

“You’re trying to justify lying to me about something this huge because you were afraid that we might not stay together?” Fletcher’s face grows red. “Who would even believe me if I told anyone? No one would take my word over yours, _Lord Trevelyan_.”

The words sting Archer like venom, but he knows he deserves it.

“I never needed you to protect me from anyone too cowardly to come at me head-on or too weak to follow me over the Frostbacks,” Fletcher continues. “And I don’t feel any better knowing you’ve been lying to everyone else when you know that any one of us would _die_ for you!”

“I don’t blame you for being upset.” Archer looks at him pleadingly. “This all just started by accident, and we were so deep into it when you came into the picture. It wasn’t as easy as just letting you in on it immediately. Every time we discussed when the right time to tell you was, we just kept finding reasons why it wasn’t the right time. I tried, Fletcher, really.”

“I can almost – _almost_ – excuse you not telling me while we were in the midst of fighting off Corypheus,” Fletcher says. “But, in the name of the Lady, why keep it from me after that? What danger have we been in since then? Have I not been loyal to you?”

“You have, Fletcher.” Archer runs his hand back through his own hair. “Leliana just had me convinced that it was better to wait or not tell you at all. Josephine and Cullen agreed; they thought it at least best not to tell you until after we figured out where the Inquisition was headed.”

“Did you get permission from your advisors, or are you going to be in trouble for letting me in on this?” Fletcher asks. “Do I have to start lying to everyone now, too?”

Archer shakes his head. “I didn’t tell them that I was telling you, and I have no doubt that they’ll be upset that I didn’t consult them first. But I don’t care! I think we’re past the point where it matters. Even if you ran off and told everyone, I don’t know what bad can come of it. Certainly nothing worse than what we’ve dealt with already.”

“It doesn’t matter, does it?” Fletcher closes his eyes briefly, clearly struggling to find words. “People just let you get away with everything because you’re Hawke and that’s how it goes.”

“That’s not true.”

Fletcher walks over to him and pushes him. “I looked up to you! I prattled on about you for hours and hours and read that stupid book until you had to replace it for me because it was falling apart!” He turns his back to Archer, unable to face him. “And it was about _you_ , and you knew how I felt about Hawke.”

Archer walks around him to face him, even if the other man won’t meet his gaze. “Do you know what I would give sometimes to _not_ be Hawke? I’ve been my happiest as a Trevelyan because I have you. I just – I couldn’t tell anyone. You have to realize I didn’t keep this from you because I wanted to.”

“You being you worked out fine enough, whatever your name may be. And I understand that you had your reasons just fine, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to be angry about it.”

“My name is Archer, and you know that. And I completely understand you being angry because I have lied to you about this for so long. I just need you to realize that it wasn’t out of malice.”

“Archer, if you think I want to marry you now-“

Archer cuts him off before he can finish. “I know what the answer is going to be, and that’s why I’m not going to ask you. Not now at least.” He sighs. “I’m an idiot, I know, but I’ll do anything I can to make it up to you. You really are the brightest thing in my life, Fletcher. I want to make you as happy as you make me.”

Fletcher crosses his arms, and he lowers his previous tone. “Were you really not happy before?”

“There were moments of happiness,” Archer says. “But it was largely a nightmare. I watched my brother die, my mother die, and my father before them. For three years, one of my closest advisors has been the man who took my sister from me. And the only person I had ever loved caused a building to explode – as you might have heard – and then proceeded to leave me even though I fully supported him in that action and would have stood by his side until the bitter end.”

Fletcher stares at him for what seems like an eternity before speaking. “Maybe he left you because you hurt him, and maybe you’re just too daft to realize it.”

Archer’s lips part and he feels tears well up in his eyes right as a bugle starts to call, indicating the start of the council. He backs away from Fletcher, completely unable to form any words in response. So he shakes his head and turns around, heading straight inside the Winter Palace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to anonymouscatastrophe405 for lots of help with Fletcher's dialogue. She's his mother, so roleplaying this out was helpful :)


	33. Chapter 33

To say that Archer is hurt is an understatement, but he tries not to dwell on it. For one, he thinks he deserves everything Fletcher threw at him and worse. He lied to the person he loved from the moment he met him, and it’s a wonder that Fletcher even stuck around to hear him out. And secondly, Archer has to get inside for the real reason he’s even arrived to the palace in the first place.

When he makes his way towards the palace doors, he’s directed in by Josephine. She briefly asks if he’s alright, as he’s obviously shaken, but he makes light of the situation and tells her he’s just nervous about the procession. After reassuring him, she ushers him into the ballroom.

Inside, he finds a long table with chairs for both himself and Josephine, and they face an even longer table on the mezzanine where Leliana is flanked by Teagan Guerrin and Cyril de Montfort.

_You’ve got to be kidding me_ , Archer thinks. Cyril is yet another man here tonight who he met at Chateau Haine. To add insult to injury, Archer had to flirt with the man in order to retrieve a key from him.

Once again, Archer seems to be in luck as Cyril seems to have no realization about his actual identity.

Archer sits down in his chair, and Josephine takes her place next to him.

“This will work out best if you let me do the talking,” she whispers to him.

Usually Archer would feel the need to contest, but, after what he’s just dealt with concerning his relationship with Fletcher, he’s happy to sit silently.

“Thank you, Your Holiness,” Josephine says, after Leliana makes introductions. “Arl Teagan, as to your concerns…”

“The Inquisition established an armed presence in Ferelden territory, specifically the Hinterlands outside Redcliffe,” he says, cutting her off.

“If you preferred your city overrun by bandits, you should have said something. We just have a knack of showing up and saving people,” Archer says, unable to control himself.

Josephine kicks him under the table.

“Your help was appreciated two years ago, Inquisitor,” Teagan continues. “Now order has been restored, yet you remain. Invading under pretext of restoring order is exactly what Grey Wardens did to us centuries ago, and we exiled them! Now the Inquisition is doing the same thing, with Grey Wardens in their ranks!”

“Your concern is ill-founded,” says Cyril in a thick, Orlesian accent. “The Grey Wardens have proven their worth time and again.”

“Of course Orlais tolerates this interference,” Teagan taunts. “The Inquisition is the only reason Celene still sits upon the throne.”

“Rest assured, Teagan, the Empire of Orlais will not stand idle if the Inquisition oversteps its bounds.”

As the two men continue to argue, an Inquisition scout scurries over to their table and leans over, whispering to Archer.

“Pardon me, Inquisitor. Divine Victoria wishes to speak with you in private.”

Archer looks up at the table on the mezzanine, and sees a familiar, sly smirk come from Leliana. He leans in to Josephine and asks her to continue on in his absence before getting up from the table to follow the scout.

The scout leads him out, and the council is called for a recess.

Archer sets out to meet Leliana in a small room off of the courtyard. As he opens the door, he sighs.

“Couldn’t you scold me after th-sweet Maker!”

Archer gasps as he sees Leliana crouching down on the ground in front of a dead and bloodied Qunari soldier.

“How did he get into the Winter Palace?” Leliana asks.

Archer shakes his head. “We need to find out what’s going on. It can’t be any coincidence that it’s happening while we’re here. Can Josephine manage the diplomats while I look around?

“She will be fine,” she reassures him. “It’s all speeches and posturing for the first few days, anyway.”

“Days?” Archer asks. “No one told me it’d be days.” The last thing he can imagine doing now is suffering through all of this for any longer – now with this murder to investigate on top of everything – when all he wants to do is to settle things with Fletcher.

“It is how these things tend to go,” Leliana explains. “I will extend the recess as long as possible. I will also have our friends ready themselves for battle, if need be.”

“You think that’s likely?” Archer asks.

“I think the Exalted Council may be more exciting than we expected.”

Leliana moves past him, ready to exit the building, but then turns to face him once more. “What did you mean when you mentioned scolding?”

Archer isn’t sure he’s ready to tell her, but things really don’t seem as though they can get much worse. “I told Fletcher who I really am.”

“You what?!” She pinches the bridge of her nose and groans. “Of all the days to do this, you choose today?”

“Trust me, I’m suffering more for it than you are,” Archer says.

“Just…please try to keep this as quiet as you can until the council is over,” Leliana pleads. “This was going to be hard enough without all of the extra excitement.”

~oOo~

Archer searches the grounds to look for other clues regarding the dead Qunari. He finds a trail of blood and follows it. To his surprise, he finds a working eluvian in room in the palace off of a balcony. Not willing to risk venturing out into the unknown without backup, Archer goes back into the courtyard to find some of his companions to help him.

“You idiot!” Varric yells at him while grabbing him and pulling him to the side. “You thought _now_ would be a good time to tell Fletcher?”

Archer pulls away and straightens out the fabric of his finery. “What do you want me to say, Varric? I know I messed up.”

“That’s putting it lightly, Hawke. The kid’s a wreck.”

“Who else knows?” Archer asks, hanging his head.

“No one,” Varric says. “He came to me after you went inside, and I’ve been trying to talk him down. I-I told you that you should have told him years ago.”

“I don’t need a lecture from you,” Archer hisses. “Do you know where he is? I found a dead Qunari and an eluvian. I need him to come with me while I figure out what’s happening. You should come too.”

“You found what? Maker’s balls, can’t we go a few years without something else crazy happening?”

“Just tell me where he is, Varric.”

Varric frowns. “I left him in the bar. Thought he could use a drink.”

Archer sighs and jogs over to the bar. He finds Fletcher sitting at the counter on a stool next to Bull, and he’s nursing a half-empty bottle of wine.

“Fletcher,” Archer says, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. “A word?”

Fletcher grudgingly leaves the bottle of wine on the counter and walks out of the bar with Archer until they’re out of earshot from everyone in the area.

“Look, I know you’re mad. You have every right to be,” Archer says. “But something’s happened, and I need you to help me figure it out.”

“No,” Fletcher says sternly. “I need time away from you. Doesn’t matter what happened.”

“Please, I could really use your skills. I’m asking as your superior, not as your boyfriend.”

Fletcher laughs. “My ‘ _superior’_? Well, pardon me, _Champion_ , but I’m in no state to be taking orders or requests now.”

Archer frowns. He can understand why Fletcher doesn’t want to come with him, but he hates the thought of being away from him.

“I don’t know how long this will take, but we need to talk when I get back.”

“I’ll stay here until the council concludes,” Fletcher says. “As someone employed by the Inquisition, I have that obligation. But I can’t promise that I’ll stay around after the fact, Archer. I don’t know who you are.”

“You know exactly who I am!” Archer whispers harshly. “You’ve read that book a million times, and you’ve been with me for nearly three years. It’s all there…it’s all me.”

“But you lied to me about who you really were!” Fletcher shakes his head. “How can I trust you anymore? You made up some ridiculous backstory about a real family that actually exists, and you’ve never met them! You completely fabricated a story about your house burning down and meeting Flemeth. How do I know that everything else you say isn’t just some other lie as well?”

“You talked to Varric, right?” Archer asks. “Surely he can put some of that faith back.”

Fletcher starts to walk off. “He lied to me too. Good luck, Hawke.”

Archer walks back into the bar and sternly asks Bull to come with him. He gathers Dorian and Varric, and the three of them follow Archer silently until they get to the room containing the eluvian. Both Varric and Dorian, having experiences with eluvians before, are a little nervous about what this meant was in store for them. But Bull, having heard about the dead Qunari, is eager to get moving.

When they step through the eluvian, they enter a desolate place of broken terrain and endless eluvians scattered around. Archer thinks back to his conversation with Morrigan several years ago and realizes that this is the place she referred to as the Crossroads - the place where they believed Corypheus wanted to enter the Fade.

The group makes their way forward along the path, searching for more evidence of blood. They find a blood-splattered eluvian and speculate that the Qunari attempted to use it. The eluvian, however, appears to be inactive, and they have to move on to find other working eluvians in an attempt to restore it.

They weave their way through eluvian after eluvian, ending up in an ancient elven sanctuary which they later discover is within a valley created by the Dread Wolf Fen’Harel, the Dalish god of Misfortune. Inside the ruin, they find more Qunari. Some are dead, just like the one found at the palace. Others appear to be scorched and encased in stone. Eventually they find a group of living Qunari, and they battle them until every one of them perishes.

“Fuck!” Archer yells as the last Qunari falls. He grabs onto his left wrist, wailing as his anchor hand burns him down to his bones.

His companions run over to him and watch helplessly until the anchor stops glowing so brightly.

“You okay, Boss?” Bull asks. “I haven’t seen that happen before.”

Archer shakes his head. “It happened a few times after the breach, and then earlier today for the first time since we defeated Corypheus. I-I’m fine though. Just stress, I’m sure.”

“He’ll take you back,” Dorian says.

Archer looks at him sharply. “How do you-?”

“You think I didn’t overhear your fight earlier? You may have asked me to move back, but I’ve always prided myself on my unrivaled hearing.” Dorian shrugs. “I already knew about your past anyway.”

“Dorian!” Bull hisses.

“Does everyone know?” Archer drops his head into his right palm. “Fletcher’s going to be even more mad if it’s actually the last to know.”

“No, I think it’s really just us,” Bull says, trying to reassure him. “I knew from the beginning; Ben-Hassrath training. And, Dorian and I are together…of course he knows. Miguel may have muttered something about it in his sleep too.” He chuckles. “He sure does like to talk in his sleep, that one.”

“Cole knows, too. Can’t keep the boy out of my head,” Varric admits. “But he hasn’t blabbed it to anyone else. Seriously, you’d know if Cassandra or Vivienne knew. Sera would think it hilarious. Blackwall…well, he’d probably keep it to himself, but I don’t think he knows.”

Varric bends down near one of the dead Qunari warriors and pulls a piece of parchment off of him. He reaches out to hand it to Archer, but he pulls back so he can say one final thing.

“Whatever happens, Hawke, you know we have your back. And you know that things have a way of working out alright, even if it’s not how you planned them.”

Archer frowns and takes the parchment from him, not wanting to think about it any longer. He reads it.

“It’s a note about an ‘unknown intruder’ coming through an eluvian. They ‘turned spirits against us,’ then fled.”

“It must be a mage,” Dorian says. “They killed any Qunari in their way and let the spirits do the rest.”

Archer thinks about how valuable Fletcher’s expertise with spirits would be right about now, but he doesn’t dare say anything.

“There’s two parties then,” Bull says. “The Qunari and a mystery agent determined to stop them.”

“Come on.” Archer heads towards the nearest eluvian. “We have to warn people back at the Winter Palace about what these Qunari intend.”


	34. Chapter 34

“One dead Qunari was bad enough,” Cullen says. “Now we have more, and they’re hostile.”

Archer finds himself in a makeshift War Room inside of the Winter Palace along with his advisors. It’s been two years since he’s had all three of them together like this, and though he hasn’t always been on the best of terms with all of them, the familiarity is oddly comforting after a day as upsetting as this one.

“This makes no sense,” Josephine says, looking down at the note Archer brought back from the ruins. “The Qunari may not be friendly to the Inquisition, but they have no reason to attack us.”

“They also have no reason to be here – or using eluvians – at all,” Leliana brings up.

Cullen turns to Leliana. “I’ve had the mirror placed under guard for now, Your Holiness.”

“We must ensure that the Qunari do not disrupt the negotiations. The Exalted Council is in a very delicate state.” Josephine appears worried as she speaks.

“I’m certain you can soothe the nobles’ ruffled feathers while we solve the real problem,” Cullen says, trying to reassure her.

“Not when the Inquisitor insults everyone present by walking out in the middle of the talks!” Josephine turns to face Archer, a frown on her face. “Our only advantage is that Orlais and Ferelden are divided in goal and grievance. If they unite against us, Divine Victoria will have no choice but to support their claim. We could lose everything!”

Archer sighs. “We’re not going to be able to convince them that we should stay together if there’s no _us_ to stay together. I have to see to this Qunari threat. Luckily, I have a history in defeating them, so I can’t imagine this will be too hard. We’ll be back at the council before you know it, and then we’ll finish convincing them how important it is that our organization remains.”

“My apologies,” Josephine says, slightly hanging her head. She’s clearly embarrassed about her outburst. “I will attend to the Exalted Council.”

“And while Josie does that, we will investigate.”

“I’ll head back to the Crossroads,” Archer says. “We need to find out what the Qunari are doing, and why they attacked. And, Leliana.” He turns to face her. “Will you please keep an eye on Fletcher, make sure he’s safe.”

“Can’t your mage take care of himself?” Cullen asks.

Archer sneers at him. “He’s not _my_ mage. He’s _a_ mage, and he’s my boyfriend. At least I think he is. I may have told him I’m Hawke, and now he’s-“

“You what?!” Josephine asks with a gasp. “Of all the times to do something like this- are you…you’re mad!” She starts to speak in Antivan, and Archer recognizes a few expletives that Miguel has taught him.

“I thought we had discussed this,” Cullen says, clearly disappointed.

“I don’t have time to explain,” Archer says. “Just watch out for him and yourselves. I’ll return once I’ve figured this out.”

~oOo~

Archer decides not to try to find Fletcher before he heads back through the eluvian. The mage is already so upset with him that he can’t imagine anything happening to have him soften to the situation so soon. So he gathers his previous party and heads back out to try to make sense of everything concerning the Qunari.

Their quest leads them to the Deep Roads, and after fighting off a slew of Qunari and the occasional stray darkspawn, Archer and his crew run into a terrified man, a human named Jerran. He explains that he was a former Templar in Kirkwall until he left to join the Qun, but he’s one Archer doesn’t know by name or recognize. Jerran, however, recognizes Archer, but only by his anchor.

“What the Viddasala is doing…you have to stop her,” he pleads.

“The Viddasala?” Bull asks, surprised. “That’s a high-ranking Ben-Hassrath. Specializes in magic. Finding, studying, stopping…”

“Not anymore,” Jerran explains. “I don’t care whether you serve Fen’Harel or not. Someone has to stop her.”

Archer furrows his brow. “Why do the Qunari think that the Inquisition serves Fen’Harel? Barely any of us are elves at all.”

“I-I don’t know,” Jerran says, looking down at his hands. “The Viddasala said it, and the Qunari here accept it as fact. We’ve had agents of Fen’Harel causing trouble all over the Crossroads. Sabotage, making spirits attack us…I assumed the Inquisition was their army, that you came here because Fen’Harel told you to.

“Regardless, it doesn’t really matter if you serve him or not,” Jerran continues. “This place is a lyrium mining center. Viddasala is giving saarabas lyrium. _A lot_ of lyrium. It’s part of something she calls ‘dragon’s breath’.”

“What a stupid name for a plan,” Archer says, laughing under his breath.

“You know that most dragons’ breath destroys everything in its path, right?” Jerran asks. “You won’t think it’s so stupid when she’s using it to ‘save the South’. She’s planning an invasion.”

“Shit,” Varric mutters. “No offense, Bull, but I’ve had about enough of this Qunari crap.”

“None taken,” Bull says. “If you’ve forgotten, I’m Tal-Vashoth anyway.”

“We’ll destroy the mine and the Viddasala,” Archer says. “You should get out of here, Jerran – if you want to live.”

~oOo~

The group leaves the Deep Roads, much to Varric’s pleasure, right as they destroy they mine. They then head back to the Winter Palace to meet with Archer’s advisors.

“Dragon’s Breath,” Leliana says, shaking her head. “The Qunari always enjoyed their metaphors.”

“Right!?” Archer throws his hands up. “Stupid name.”

“But what does it mean?” Josephine asks.

“Who knows?” Cullen says. “Qunari agents moving through eluvians to attack the south is bad enough already.”

“I still do not understand why they accused the Inquisition of serving Fen’Harel.”

Archer turns to Leliana in answer. “We know that Mythal actually exists, and we’ve had association with her. It’s possible Fen’Harel is still here in some form, too.”

“What you describe in the ruins certainly implies that the Dread Wolf of elven legend is a real person,” Leliana says.

“But how does that implicate us? What made them decide that the Inquisition _serves_ this Fen’Harel?” Josephine asks. “If anything, I’d imagine the Qunari might think we serve Mythal instead, wrong as that may be.”

“We should ask Fletcher if he can contact Mythal,” Leliana suggests. “If the elven gods exist, aren’t they likely to know each other? Perhaps she can help us once more.”

Archer shakes his head. “I’m not sure that it’s worth the risk to Fletcher. He’s already bound to her, and the more he asks of her, the worse it could get for him. And I just can’t ask him that now…after everything.”

“I will ask him then,” Leliana says. “We need to explore all of our options to try to end this.”

“Let’s see the Exalted Council try to disband the Inquisition after we’ve saved them from Dragon’s Breath,” Cullen says.

“But we must find out what Dragon’s Breath is, first. For now, our only real lead is the Qunari leader, the Viddasal-“

Leliana is cut off when the heavy doors to the room creak open. Arl Teagan and Cyril de Montfort descend down the stairs to join Archer and the advisors.

“Gentlemen!” Josephine gasps.

“My apologies, Lady Josephine,” Cyril says. “There has been an incident with one of your soldiers.”

“How dare you?” Teagan sneers. “It was bad enough that the Inquisition chose not to inform the Exalted Council of the Qunari corpse…”

“Orlais would have been happy to help with the matter,” Cyril butts in.

Teagan shoots him an angry glare before continuing. “But now your own guards are attacking servants? You have overstepped your bounds!”

Archer crosses his arms. “If you could handle it, maybe we would have told you.”

“Inquisitor!” Josephine scolds.

Archer puts up his hand. “No, I’ve grown rather tired of this. Teagan, if you think we have anything but everyone’s best interest at heart, you’re dead wrong. I think we’ve proven that time and time again, and we’re about to have a repeat when we stop an all-out Qunari invasion in the South.”

“A Qunari what?” Teagan asks, completely taken aback.

“The council will resume when I’ve seen to the matter. Is that understood?” Archer asks.

Teagan says nothing.

Cyril bows. “Thank you, Inquisitor. Orlais stands ready to assist the Inquisition, as always.”

Archer rolls his eyes and proceeds to push past the two men.

“Secrets and lies,” Teagan says. This catches Archer’s attention, and he turns back to face him. “Do you understand why we fear your Inquisition? You act as if you’re the solution to every problem. How long before you drag us into another war?”

“I’m keeping you _out_ of another war,” Archer spits. “Maybe if Ferelden could stop this sort of threat on their own, there wouldn’t be a need for the Inquisition.”

With that, Archer leaves to go see to the attacked servant.


	35. Chapter 35

Archer discovers that an elven servant has been stopped by the Inquisition’s guards from delivering a barrel of wine to the guests at the Winter Palace. While the Palace guards are angered by this course of action, it turns out that the Inquisition guards were right to be fearful of the suspicious servant. Rather than being filled with wine, the barrel is actually filled with gaatlok, a highly explosive powder produced by the Qunari.

Leliana and Archer come to the conclusion that this gaatlok is likely to be the Dragon’s Breath that Jerran had told them about. If the Qunari had successfully smuggled the barrel into the palace, everyone at the Exalted Council would have died. The south, in turn, would have lost many of its most important political players, and would therefore be unlikely to defend itself against a Qunari invasion.

A note found on the elven servant indicates that the smuggler should report to the Viddasala after performing their duties. Luckily, it also indicates how to get to her, and it’s through an eluvian marked by a bookcase.

As Archer gathers his group to confront this Qunari leader, Leliana sends out her agents to remove other gaatlok barrels that have been placed around the palace. In addition to this, she watches Fletcher closely, as she promised to Archer.

~oOo~

Archer, Varric, Dorian, and The Iron Bull head back into the eluvian at the Winter Palace. They find themselves back at the Crossroads, and they’re able to pass through an eluvian that was previously inactive. This leads them down another road and eventually to an eluvian marked by a bookcase, just as the note had indicated.

Once they pass through, they’re surrounded by an ancient ruin filled with books. With the help of a friendly spirit, they discover that this place is known as the Vir Dirthara, a place of ancient elven knowledge.

The spirit informs them the Viddasala wants to know more about the Veil, but it is unable to tell Archer _why_ she wants such knowledge. It does, however, tell him that other spirits throughout the Vir Dirthara may know more.

As they press on, another spirit informs them that the Fade and the physical world were once one and the same, and that the Veil between them was created by Fen’Harel. It was this action which caused the Vir Dirthara to fall into ruin and the ancient elven gods to stop talking their people, as they were essentially imprisoned. After the Veil was created, Fen’Harel disappeared, and the ancient elven empire collapsed from its once great state due to the weakening of their magic.

Archer and his group pass through an eluvian, and they finally meet their target.

“Survivor of the breach. Herald of chance. Hero of the South.”

“The Viddasala, I presume,” Archer responds.

The Viddasala is a broad Qunari woman with a hardened glare and a commanding presence. She wears paint on her body that looks much like that which the Arishok wore before Archer destroyed him.

“After fulfilling your purpose at the Breach, it is astonishing to hear you still walked free among your people,” she taunts. “Your duty is done, Inquisitor. It is time to end your magic.”

Archer lifts up his hand, looks at it, and then looks back to her. “This ol’ thing? It’s not so bad. Don’t you think we can just talk this out? No need to,” he laughs, “I don’t know, start a war or something crazy like that.”

“If it’s not so bad, then tell me…why hold your hand as if it’s begun to pain you?”

Archer didn’t even realize that he’d begun to massage it, silently begging the pain to go away.

“There’s no need to pretend that you’re blind to what you’ve begun,” she continues. “I am no stranger to catastrophe, but this chaos in the South defies comprehension. The Qun left your people to curb your own magic. You’ve amply proven that we should have stepped in long ago.”

“I think you did try to step in,” Archer says. “You did fail to mention me by one of my other titles. Let it not go unknown that I killed your Arishok in Kirkwall less than a decade ago.”

“The Arishok was weak!” she yells. “Those who do not deserve to lead – to live – they meet an end like he did. He would not have been strong enough to do what was necessary like we are.

“The day we saw the Breach, the Qun decided its action. We would remove your leaders and spare those who toil. This agent of Fen’Harel has disrupted everything. Lives that were to be spared were lost for him!”

“Who is this agent?” Archer asks. “Why would you think they work for the Inquisition?”

“You did the Qunari a great service when you destroyed the former Arishok. It is almost unfortunate what I must do to you.” She turns to walk away from him, unwilling to answer his question. Turning to her guards, she says, “Kill the Inquisitor then join me.”

Together, Archer and his companions fight the Qunari with little difficulty, and, as soon as they’re done, they run after the Viddasala. Unfortunately, they’ve lost any trace of her, but they manage to find another spirit who tells them where to go: the Darvaarad, a fortress upon an island run by the Qunari.

They return to the Winter Palace to regroup after increasing their intel.

Leliana informs them that the palace was not the only location targeted by the Qunari as other barrels containing gaatlok were found in Denerim, Val Royeaux, and all of the Free Marches’ major city states, Kirkwall included.

“The Qunari are one order from destroying every noble house in the known world,” Cullen says.

“There is a bright side,” Josephine informs them. “Warning the ambassadors will remind them of the Inquisition’s value.”

Leliana shakes her head. “Not when the Inquisition is responsible for that threat.”

Archer groans. “As if we needed any more bad news…”

“The elven servant handling the barrels has disappeared,” she says. “Notes in his quarters suggest he was a Qunari spy.”

“But the servant was Orlesian,” Josephine insists. “That implicates Orlais, not us.”

“But the barrels arrived at the Winter Palace on the Inquisition’s supply manifest,” Leliana says.

Cullen sighs. “How are we supposed to fight a war when we can’t even trust our own people?”

“I fought a war with you, and I haven’t trusted you since the day I met you,” Archer mutters under his breath.

“What’s that, Inquisitor?” Cullen asks.

“Nothing, nothing.” Archer turns his attention to Leliana. “Do you know who got the barrels onto the Inquisition manifest?”

“Yes,” she responds. “Several of the Inquisition’s elven workers have gone missing. I had their backgrounds checked. They joined the Inquisition after fleeing the chaos in Kirkwall.”

“I remember when Kirkwall was at its worst,” Cullen says. “Many of the city’s elves converted to the Qun. Trying to find a better life.”

“And the Qunari turned them into spies,” Josephine adds.

Archer frowns, and he thinks of Merrill and Fenris. Neither of them would dare to join the Qun, but there are other elves he had met all those years ago that could have been desperate enough. _Orana, maybe..._

“Anyone I might know?” he asks.

Leliana shakes her head. “No connection other than being displaced after your…after Anders destroyed the Chantry.”

“The Inquisition stopped Corypheus and saved the world,” Archer says. “We can’t let an outside threat change who we are.”

“I fought to protect the Inquisition in this Exalted Council. And for what?” Josephine asks. “So we could deceive and threaten those we claimed to protect?”

“Once we locate the spies-“

Josephine cuts Cullen off. “This isn’t _about_ the spies! You hid the Qunari body. You’ve all but seized control of the Winter Palace!”

“We did what was right!” Cullen spits. “Not what was politically convenient!”

“For once I agree with you, Rutherford,” Archer says.

“Do you know what this has cost us with Orlais and Ferelden? They are planning to dismantle us as we speak!” Josephine looks down, forlorn. “And perhaps they are right.”

All of the advisors turn to face Archer as he starts to cry out. The anchor on his hand is glowing, pulsing. The pain is so severe that he falls to his knees.

“Inquisitor!” Josephine shouts, rushing to his side.

Archer picks himself up and shakes out his left hand. “The mark is…I thought It was fine. It’s been under control for years. But it’s been getting worse since we got here.”

“We’ll get a healer to look at you,” Cullen suggests.

“There’s no time. I have to go to the Darvaarad to finish this. Let’s just keep all of this to ourselves for now.” He turns to Leliana. “If I don’t come back, please tell Fletcher I’m sorry and that I love him.”

She shakes her head. “You’ll tell him yourself when you return.”


	36. Chapter 36

Archer and his companions pass back through the eluvian. They have an item known as the keystone which was found on the body of one of the dead Qunari. It helps them activate an eluvian which will transport them to the Darvaarad. But as they move forward, Archer finds it increasingly difficult to press on. As the minutes pass, his hand starts to ache more and more. The anchor, once firmly fixed to his palm, seems to have formed tendrils which are slowly starting to climb up his wrist and higher.

“Inquisitor, are you sure you can go on?” Dorian asks. “Let me see it…I might be able to do something.”

Archer keeps walking, slower than before. “Dorian, if you knew any healing spells, we’d have had a much easier time in the battlefield.”

“It’s been an honor to kick asses besides you, Boss,” Bull says.

“Why are you all talking as though he’s dying?!” Varric yells. “Hawke, you’re going to be alright. You’re _always_ alright…”

“I think my dumb luck’s catching up to me, old friend,” Archer says, nearly to the eluvian.

“You promised me a game of Wicked Grace, you bastard. You’re not leaving me until I get it.”

Through the eluvian, the group is transported into a fortress – the Darvaarad. The battlements are littered with hundreds of broken eluvians.

As they search the grounds, an ambush of Qunari soldiers surrounds them. While they fight, Archer feels his hand start to burn worse than before. As he screams, his hand emits a green pulse of energy, far more powerful that than which released from him when closing rifts.  He’s able to direct the blast to kill multiple enemies in one blow. But each time this happens, he feels his entire body growing weaker.

As much as he doesn’t want to believe it, he knows this is it. He knows he’ll never see Fletcher again.

Deep inside of the fortress walls, the group finally discovers the real meaning behind Dragon’s Breath. Unlike what Leliana had suggested, this weapon was no metaphor at all. A massive, enraged high dragon sits inside, bound by chains. The group is discovered by the Viddasala, and she commands her Qunari warriors to attack them.

Archer fights back, but he allows his crew to take up most of the work. He’s weaker than he’s felt in years, and he knows he has to preserve whatever’s left inside of himself to take on the Viddasala. Luckily, he’s surrounded by able companions, and the three other men take down the Qunari without incurring any injury.

Before Archer can discuss a further plan of attack, The Iron Bull rushes forward towards the dragon to attack her. Dorian and Varric follow quickly, and Archer stays behind. He knows he’s got absolutely nothing in him that would award a victory over such a beast, so he hides behind her stone prison until he can work out a way to open the gates that keep her inside. By his command, Dorian and Varric release her from her bindings, and the dragon is able to make her escape.

Varric, Dorian, and Bull all make to run after the Viddasala, but they come rushing back when they see that Archer is hardly able to stand. Bull helps him up, and he wraps an arm under Archer’s shoulder to keep him moving.

As quickly as they can, they manage to meet up with the Viddasala and her remaining guardsmen just outside of a working eluvian. As soon as he sees her, Archer cries out in pain once more. The tendrils from his anchor have worked halfway up his forearm.

“Dear Inquisitor, you have such little time left,” the Viddasala mocks. “You must finally see the truth. Elven magic already tore the sky apart. If the agents of Fen’Harel are not stopped, you will shatter the world as well.”

“The Inquisition has nothing to do with these agents!” Archer insists.

“Come, Inquisitor. I am the eyes and ears of the Qunari people. Do you think you can deceive me? You would have died from the mark on your hand, but for the help of one of their chief agents. The same agent who helped seal the breach. Who led you to Skyhold. Who gave Corypheus the orb, then founded the Inquisition. Solas, agent of Fen’Harel.”

Archer does his best to take a step forward. “Whatever Solas is involved in, I am nobody’s puppet.”

“Even now, you refuse to see the strings,” she says. “Solas tricked us all. _He_ pushed a dying Qunari into the Winter Palace, to lure you into opposing us. Without him, we could have brought the South peace and wisdom along the gentle path. Now we must take the way of blades.”

“You arrogant bitch!” Archer yells. “The South doesn’t need your Qun, peacefully or through war!”

Before he can carry on, he falls to his knees again due to the immense pain spreading through him from his anchor.

“Panahedan, Inquisitor,” the Viddasala says. “If it is any consolation, Solas will not outlive you.”

The Viddasala passes through the eluvian, and Archer is helped off of the ground by Dorian.

“I don’t know if I believe her,” he says. “I don’t know if he really betrayed us. But I know that we need to get to him first if I’ve got any chance of him fixing my fucking hand.”

~oOo~

When they walk through the eluvian, they’re transported into a beautiful wilderness containing what seems to be more elven ruins. More Qunari surface, and Archer does his best to lie low while his companions work to fight them off. When it appears that they’re nearly done, Archer crawls forward and into another eluvian.

Though he halfway expects to find and battle more Qunari, he’s surprised to see that his enemies are all encased in stone, much like those they saw after passing through ruins earlier on. Even more surprising is that none of his friends pass through the eluvian behind him. In fact, the mirror appears to go dark.

With no way to turn back, Archer walks forward, nearly stumbling in his weakness. But ahead of him, he hears a familiar voice. Suddenly, he’s overcome with a rush of energy, and he runs forward up a hill. Before him stands Solas and the Viddasala.

“Your forces have failed,” Solas says to her, not acknowledging Archer’s appearance. “Leave now and tell the Qunari to trouble me no further.”

As he turns his back to her, walking towards a large eluvian, the Viddasala raises her spear. But, before she can launch it at him, she’s instantly turned to stone, matching the those in the graveyard just below the hill.

“Solas,” Archer says. As the elf turns to look at him, Archer screams out in pain and falls to his knees. The anchor on his hand is so bright that it’s nearly blinding. The tendrils have advanced all the way to his elbow.

Solas looks at his hand, and his eyes glow blue. It’s a sight that Archer has only seen only one other: when Justice manifested through Anders. In an instant, the anchor diminishes to a small speck on his palm. All of the pain has ceased.

“That should give us more time,” Solas says quietly.

Archer stands up and looks at his old companion in the eyes. He appears hurt, possibly worried.

“I suspect you have questions.”

“The Qunari believe you’re an agent for someone who has taken the name Fen’Harel,” Archer says. “Is the elven god real just like Mythal?”

“The Qunari reject myth and legend,” Solas explains. “If you told them of your meeting with Mythal, they would attribute it to a demon. I am no one’s agent but my own. I fear that the truth is much simpler, and much worse, than the Qunari believe.”

Archer’s eyes grow wide. “You’re Fen’Harel.”

“I was Solas first. ‘Fen’Harel’ came later…an insult I took as a badge of pride. The Dread Wolf inspired hope in my friends and fear in my enemies…not unlike ‘Champion’ or ‘Inquisitor,’ I suppose. You also know the burden of titles that all but replace your name.”

“Then you know who I am?” Archer asks.

Solas gives him a weak smile. “We’ve both been living double lives, it would seem.”

“Are you a fragment of what Fen’Harel once was, like Mythal?” Archer asks.

“No. This is all I have ever been.”

“And the legends?”

“I sought to set my people free from slavery to would-be gods, the Evanuris. I broke the chains of all who wished to join me. The false gods called me Fen’Harel, and when they finally went too far, I formed the Veil and banished them forever. Thus, I freed the elven people and, in doing so, destroyed their world.”

“That’s the past,” Archer says. “What about the future?”

Solas turns from him. “I lay in dark and dreaming sleep while countless wars and ages passed. I woke still weak a year before I joined you. My people fell for what I did to strike the Evanuris down, but still some hope remains for restoration. I will save the elven people, even if it means _this_ world must die.”

“Why does this world have to die for the elves to return?” Archer demands.

“A good question, but not one I will answer. You have always shown a thoughtfulness I respected. I would be too easy to tell you too much. I am not Corypheus. I take no joy in this. But the return of my people means the end of yours. It is my fight. You should be more concerned about the Inquisition. _Your_ Inquisition.

“In stopping the Dragon’s Breath,” he says, turning to face Archer, “you have prevented an invasion by Qunari forces. With luck, they will return their focus to Tevinter. That should give you a few years of relative peace.”

“Peace before you destroy the world I have given my entire being to protect?” Archer spits. “Maybe it’ll be peace for those who are left, but my hand is killing me, Solas. I’ll never even get to say goodbye to the man I love!”

Solas looks down, saddened. “I’m sorry. And we are almost out of time.”

The anchor starts to glow again, and Archer feels more pain that he ever thought possible for a body to endure. He cries out, holding it in desperation as he rolls on the ground.

“The mark will eventually kill you,” Solas says, kneeling down next to him. “Drawing you here gave me the chance to save you…at least for now.”

“I’m going to stop you,” Archer wails. “I’ll either change your mind or kill you, but you _won’t_ destroy what we’ve worked so hard for.”

Solas stands and looks down at him. “I would treasure the chance to be wrong again, Inquisitor. Take my hand.”

Archer hesitates, but he extends his left hand and grabs Solas’.

“I’m sorry,” Solas whispers. He slams his left hand down in a fist, and the mark starts to recede. “Live well, while time remains.”

Solas walks off into the eluvian, and Archer falls unconscious.

~oOo~

When Archer wakes up, he’s still where he fell. As he rouses, he feels a numb pain in his left arm, and he gasps when he looks down. From his elbow down, he sees that his flesh is a gnarled mess. He lies in a pool of his own blood, and there’s no anchor to be seen.

Desperately, he tries to move his left arm as little as possible. He pulls off his finery coat, and he rips off the sash. With his right hand and his teeth, he manages to fashion it into a tourniquet, and he places it above his left elbow in an attempt to save himself any more blood loss.

He struggles to get up as he feels the pain growing. Finally, he manages it, and he stumbles forward until he reaches the eluvian, lit up and active once again. He passes through it.

To his surprise, Archer finds himself back at the Winter Palace. His feet drag him through the hallways until he finds himself outside of the ballroom. Teagan and Cyril’s voices resonate even outside of the room, arguing about the Inquisition and the Qunari.

Archer throws the door open with his right hand, and he continues to dribble blood all along the white marble floor.

“Inquisitor!” Josephine screams. “You’re shirtless…and bleeding!” She rushes over to help him back to the table.

Leliana, Cyril, and Teagan all stand up from their seats.

“Can we get a healer in here?” Teagan yells.

Archer points his right index finger to Teagan and then to Cyril. “Fuck you, and fuck you.

“Teagan, you’ve got your head stuck so far up your arse that you can’t see past your own cold and stupid country to care about the rest of the world. And Cyril, I don’t trust you for one bloody second. You might be wearing a mask, but that brown nose of yours can only get us into trouble.”

Archer turns to Leliana. “And you…you’re a dear friend to me, but I cannot let the Inquisition sit under Chantry rule.”

“Inquisitor, what are you saying?” Josephine asks.

“I’m saying we’re done here! Not because our work is done, but because I cannot waste another second of my life listening to people who think they need to control me.”

Archer turns to walk out of the room, but he stops on his heels and spins around.

“And one more thing…I’m Archer Hawke. _That_ Archer Hawke. Good luck with your own countries, boys. Don’t come crying to me the next time you need saving.”

Archer smiles to himself as he starts to turn again. But this time he stumbles. The world goes dark once again.


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for body dysphoria

“I don’t want to ride the halla, Merrill.”

“Archer?”

“Awful woodland creature’s going to try to stab me with its pointy antlers.”

“Archer…”

“And if it kills, me I’ll haunt you for it.”

“Archer!”

Archer sits up swiftly the third time he hears his name, finally waking him from his deep slumber. His eyes are slow to open, preferring the dark in all of its comfort. But he manages to open them, the sunlight so yellow and muted in a way that can only be achieved from shining in through a thick paned window. The sheet covering his lower half is scratchy, and his mouth is tacky with thirst.

“Someone, get the healer!”

Archer looks over and smiles unconsciously. Fletcher is sitting next to him and to his right on the cot he’s sat on. He looks tired, disheveled. The usual black paint striped across his face is missing, replaced by dark circles under his hazel eyes.

“You didn’t sleep well did you, kid?” Archer asks.

Before Fletcher has a chance to say anything, a plump woman rushes to his side.

“Out of the way, ser, please,” she says to Fletcher.

Fletcher does as he’s told, getting up off of the cot to allow her to get better access to Archer.

Archer shakes his head, not understanding who she is or what she’s doing. He notices that several other people he doesn’t recognize start to come into the room which he now realizes is unfamiliar.

“Fletcher?” Archer asks as Fletcher starts to move around to the other side of the bed. He reaches out for him with his left hand, but he can’t seem to make contact with him. He reaches out more and more, his fingers grasping for his robes, desperate for the comfort of something familiar, but try as he might, he can’t reach him.

Archer looks down to find that his left arm from the elbow down is completely missing, and all that’s left is a stump wrapped in white gauze. His entire body involuntarily jerks back so hard that he would have fallen off of the cot if not for the group of strangers steadying him.

“Where is it?!” Archer asks, more of a yell than a question.

“They had to take it, love,” Fletcher says softly. He reaches out and touches Archer’s leg, but Archer recoils from him.

“Give it back!” Archer pushes the strangers away from him with his right hand. “Nobody fucking touch me!”

“Inquisitor, please,” a man with a thick Orlesian accent pleads with him. “Calm down. You’re not in any state to handle this much stress.”

Archer squirms past these strangers and off of the cot. His tired legs can’t support his weight, and he topples to the floor on his chest. Desperately, he tries to pick himself up, and he screams out in pain as what remains of his left arm comes into contact with the cold tile floor.

He’s ambushed by the crowd, and he hears Fletcher trying to argue with them all, begging them to let Archer handle it. The last thing he hears is something about sedating him. The comforting darkness takes him over once more.

~oOo~

When Archer wakes up again, Fletcher is at his side, and, this time, no one else is called into the room. Fletcher tells him that it’s been two days since he was sedated and nearly a fortnight since he had come out of the eluvian with his arm mangled beyond repair. No one knew what had happened to him that day. The Iron Bull, Dorian, and Varric had all recounted what they had observed and how they believed that Solas may have been involved considering the information the Viddasala had disclosed to them.

The Empress’ private medical staff had made the hasty, yet life-saving decision to amputate Archer’s forearm after he passed out in the Winter Palace’s ballroom. The surgery spanned the course of several hours, and a transfusion was performed due to the extensive blood loss Archer had suffered.

Every healer in Halamshiral had been called in to assess Archer’s condition after he made it out of surgery, and several from Val Royeaux had come in as well. Some remarked that it was a miracle that he survived at all while others professed that it only made sense for the Herald of Andraste to be able to suffer so much and live. Most worked diligently to keep him from infection, but the most skilled worked to try to derive a prognosis.

Understandably, no one really knew what kind of lingering effects the anchor would have on Archer’s body. The anchor itself was obviously no longer present, but dark marks from its former tendrils still remained etched into his skin just above the elbow. The temperature in that arm remained several degrees higher than his core body temperature, even at the point when his surgical incisions had healed. They chalked this up to lingering inflammation that would, surely, subside.

Archer, on the other hand, knew all too well what his fate would be. Solas had told him that day in the ruins somewhere past the Crossroads. The anchor, present on his hand or not, was going to kill him. Whatever it was had seeped deep inside of him, flowed through his veins, and it wrapped its tendrils invisibly around him until, eventually, it would squeeze his last breath out of him.

_Unless I can find him._

“Fletcher, is anyone from the Inquisition still here? I need to have a meeting with my advisors.”

Fletcher is lying next to Archer on their shared bed in the guest suite offered to them by Celene for Archer’s recovery. He frowns at him.

“You’ve only just woken up again, and you want a meeting? I think it’s better that we have a healer look at you first. Or maybe get something for you to eat. You must be starving.”

Archer is hungry, but, for the first time in his life, he thinks that food can wait. “This is important.”

“A few people have remained,” Fletcher admits. “I’ll go fetch them.”

Fletcher is only gone from the room for a mere ten minutes before he returns with two Inquisition members in tow.

“I’m so pleased to see you are awake,“ Josephine says to Archer.

“You insolent, reckless, lying, conniving-“

“You promised you’d always be my friend, Cassandra,” Archer says, cutting her off.

The seeker rushes over to the bed and punches him in the right shoulder. Fletcher moves quickly to grab her, but Archer puts up his hand to stop him, knowing he deserves a far more than a punch.

“I promised to be Archer Trevelyan’s friend!” she shouts. “But you lied to me for years!”

Archer has an instant, horrifying thought. “Where’s Varric? Did you kill Varric?”

“No, but he wished he was dead for the first week after you announced to the world who you really are,” Cassandra says. She shakes her head and sighs. “You are alright, and that’s all that matters. I forgive you.”

Archer’s eyes dart back and forth between her, Josephine, and Fletcher, in complete disbelief at how easily he’s being let off the hook by someone he was most certain would have killed him upon finding out this information a few weeks ago. If there’s any reason to be thankful for his near-death experience, it’s knowing that Cassandra’s fear for his well-being has essentially saved him for the second time this month.

“I-I appreciate that, Seeker,” Archer says. “I really value you, and I know that it was unfair to just assume you’d straight up murder me.”

“Don’t push your luck.”

“Understood.”

“We appreciate you allowing us to check in on you,” Josephine says. “We should let you rest now.”

“No,” Archer says shortly. “I asked Fletcher to get you and my other advisors because we have work to do. Where are Cullen and Leliana?”

Cassandra and Josephine look to each other, as though silently asking each other who should answer him.

“You disbanded the Inquisition,” Josephine finally says. “While Leliana stayed in Halamshiral for over a week to see how you recovered, eventually she had to leave to perform her duties as Divine.

“Cullen…well, the news of your true identity has been met with conflicting views,” she continues. “Some only care that you have managed to save the world, regardless of your past. Others do not appreciate the deception or your past involvement with your former lover. While the majority of us have been able to play dumb to your past, everyone knows that Cullen was the former Knight-Captain in Kirkwall while you were there as Champion. For his own safety, he’s gone into hiding.”

Before Archer has any time to react, Cassandra speaks.

“Most of our former companions have had to leave Orlais as well, but we have yet to decide what to do with the Inquisition itself. We can liquidate our assets, possibly giving pension to those who have worked with us. Skyhold, we’ve discussed, should remain yours.”

“Why are you acting like we’re done?” Archer asks. “I disbanded it formally because I can’t have people fighting over us. But that doesn’t mean we don’t still have work to do. We’ll just do what any self-respecting group of misfits does; we go underground and get stuff done!”

“I hardly think you’re up for that,” Fletcher says.

“I feel fine,” Archer snaps back.

In all honesty, he does feel alright. He’s had more than enough time to rest, and he’s not exactly the type of person to let a missing arm get in the way of achieving his goals. If he doesn’t find Solas, there’s no way he can stop the remnant of the anchor from killing him. If he doesn’t find Solas, there’s no way he can stop him from destroying everything.

“Regardless of your state, Inquisitor, what ‘stuff’ do we even need to do?” Josephine asks.

“I need you to send word to our old group to meet us back in Skyhold,” Archer tells them. “We’ve got something so much worse than Corypheus to deal with.”

Cassandra furrows her brows. “What in all of Thedas could possibly be worse than an ancient Tevinter magister determined to command the world as he achieves godhood?”

“How about a god determined to destroy the world?” Archer asks. “And, Josephine. Please, call me Hawke.”


	38. Chapter 38

Archer gave his friends a brief summary of his encounter with Solas, and then plans were made to get everyone left of the former Inquisition crew back to Skyhold by the end of the month. Cassandra would set out immediately while Josephine would stay behind to see that all loose ends were tied up in Orlais. Pending Archer’s health, he and Fletcher would set out mid-week after he was given the clear by Celene’s chief healer.

But for now, Archer and Fletcher have a moment to themselves.

“I will never get used to Orlesian food,” Archer remarks, looking down at the tray of food that the palace staff had brought in for the two of them.

“It’s different than the food I’ve grown up on, certainly,” Fletcher says sitting down next to Archer at a small table by the roaring fireplace in their room. “But it’s the same food that serves the Empress, so I’d say it should be good enough for us.”

Archer huffs before picking at a slice of onion tart. It’s really not bad, and the tomato bisque is so warm and hearty that it warms him more than the fire. He knows he’s barely eaten in weeks, and he feels stronger with just a few bites. But, as he finishes off the first two courses, he’s hit with the sudden realization of his state.

“Let me help you,” Fletcher insists, seeing the worry on Archer’s face. He pulls his plate towards him and starts to cut his filet mignon up into manageable pieces.

“I can do it,” Archer insists, reaching out for his plate.

Fletcher pulls his fork and steak knife back, allowing Archer to do as he will, and he watches helplessly as his lover stabs at the slab of meat with his own knife.

Archer manages to saw off a sliver of meat, and he stabs its center with the point of the knife. He turns the knife and takes the meat into his mouth, chewing at it triumphantly.

“See,” Archer smirks, still chewing in the side of his mouth. “I don’t need two hands to function. I appreciate it, really, kid. I just don’t need the extra help.”

“Of course, love,” Fletcher says wearily. He goes back to picking at his own steak.

The rest of the meal is quiet. Fletcher is used to finishing his food after Archer, who generally tears through it as though he’s fighting off would-be food thieves. But he can hardly manage the steak with one hand and it takes him an exceptionally long time to finish it. As not to disrupt the typical balance any more than it’s been, Fletcher does his best to eat a record slow pace.

Once finished, Fletcher places their plates on a silver cart that was brought in by the staff, and he wheels it out into the hallway for collection. While he works, Archer, exhausted from the efforts made to eat, climbs into the grand four-poster bed and settles back against the headboard.

“I think it’s time we talk,” Archer says. He has to lean over to his left in order to pat the bed with his right hand.

Fletcher nods and walks to the bed and sits down at his side, cross legged and facing the other man.

“Just because I almost died doesn’t mean you have to instantly forgive me for what I did to you,” Archer says.

“I didn’t instantly forgive you,” Fletcher says. “Part of me is still hurt, but I’ve worked to forgive you while I sat by your side for the last two weeks.”

Archer reaches out to him to take his hand, but then he pulls away when he sees the sadness in Fletcher’s eyes. Unknowingly, he tried to reach out with the hand that’s not there. What’s odd is that he swears that he can feel it.

“You’re a good man to be able to still love me,” Archer says while he quickly reaches over for him with his right hand. He smiles when he feels their fingers intertwine. “I was really sure you were going to leave me. I feel like I’d deserve it, too.”

“I think you did deserve it,” Fletcher admits. “But then I thought about what I’d said to you…about how Anders might have left you for something stupid you did, and I felt terrible for that. I figured I at least owed it to you to have a conversation about it when I’d had a chance to clear my head. Then, of course, you went and got…hurt.”

Archer bites the inside of his lip, remembering how much those words stung. But even so, he knows he deserved that hurt and more for the way he’d made Fletcher feel.

“The only way I know how to make it up to you is to save the world again so that you can still be in it,” Archer says. “That and try to show you every single day we have left together that I love you. None of that was a lie.”

Fletcher shakes his head. “I don’t want to talk about the Solas thing now.”

“We don’t have to.” Archer knows there will be far too much to discuss when they’re all back at Skyhold. “We can talk about something else then. Anything else. I swear you won’t ever hear another lie from my lips.”

“Then I want to talk about _him_.”

“Who?”

“Anders.”

Archer furrows his brow and pulls his hand back. Fletcher has expressed some interest in Anders before, but Archer has always played dumb, and Varric has always done his best to shut any conversations about him down. But he understands why Fletcher would have some interest as an apostate himself, and even more so now that he knows he’s dating that man’s former lover.

“There isn’t much to tell,” Archer says.

“You told me there’d be no more lies.”

“I didn’t finish.” Archer runs his hand back through his hair, and he feels that the sides of his head are in desperate need of a shave. “I just mean that there isn’t much to tell that you don’t already know. Varric’s book lays out the important details. He ran off from the Wardens after merging with a spirit of Justice, set up a clinic in Darktown, and he destroyed the Kirkwall Chantry. We were in love once. The end.”

“He’s one of the most important people in the entire age, and you knew him…intimately,” Fletcher says. “It may not be fair to ask you about him because of that history, but the story of Hawke – you – and Kirkwall has engrossed me for years. I just wish I understood a few more things about him. That might help me understand more about _you_.”

“You could just ask me if you wanted to know more about me,” Archer scoffs.

“Fine.” Fletcher gets off the bed and goes over to a wardrobe to get his cloak.

Archer sits up. “Are you really doing this?”

“You said we could talk about anything, and now you’re shutting me out. I want to trust you, Archer, but this isn’t the way to go about it,” Fletcher says. He grabs his staff and walks towards the door. “I need to go for a walk to clear my head.”

“Alright!” Archer huffs, leaning back against the headboard again. “I’ll tell you about him, just don’t leave.”

Fletcher pulls his hand off of the door knob and looks at the other man, contemplating what he wants to do. After a few seconds, he sets down his staff, but he leaves his cloak on. He climbs back up onto the bed.

“How did he leave the Wardens?” Fletcher asks. “Most of my knowledge of the Wardens came from talking to Blackwall, but, when I realized he wasn’t the most appropriate source, I had to find a book. From that, I didn’t think you could just _leave_ them.”

“I think you’d likely know more about them than I do if you’ve read books about them,” Archer admits. “Anders never wanted to talk much about those days. I knew that he had fought side by side with the Hero of Ferelden, but that was after the fifth Blight ended. There were other people he ran with: a guy named Nathaniel, the spirit of Justice that he later merged with, and he said something about someone being an architect. Not sure why an architect would run around with Wardens, but maybe they needed a keep built or something. Honestly, I tuned out some of the minor details.

“Anyway, he told me that he left because they made him get rid of his cat,” he continues. “That was when we first met, but later when I asked him, he told me that, when he and Justice merged, people weren’t happy about it. But there were Templars after him - illegally so considering his conscription to the Wardens. He had to leave for his own safety, and then he came to Kirkwall to look for a friend. Doesn’t mean he’s not still a Warden. You drink the taint, and that’s that. He just actively didn’t associate with them anymore, and I highly doubt they’d let him back in their ranks if he ever wanted it.”

Fletcher nods, understanding. “Did you,” he hesitates. “Did you know he was going to destroy the Chantry?”

Archer is surprised at Fletcher’s boldness.

“No,” he responds simply.

It’s obvious that Archer isn’t much in the mood to talk about this, but Fletcher doesn’t appear to be ready to give up just yet.

“One more question for tonight, is that alright?” he asks.

Archer knows that there’s only one fair way to answer this, so he does it with a nod.

“Varric’s book makes it seem as though Anders sometimes wished that he and the spirit of Justice were no longer merged,” Fletcher says. “Then why did Anders continue to allow the spirit to live inside of him?”

“Because there wasn’t a way to get Justice out of him,” Archer states matter-of-factly. “When he told me of a way to rid himself of Justice, he was lying to me in order to have me help him collect items that would later be used to destroy the Chantry. He lied so that I couldn’t be blamed for knowing what was going to happen.

“Before it exploded, he admitted that the ingredients wouldn’t work that way and that he’d corrupted Justice with his own anger. He could hardly keep himself from the spirit inside of him straight, and he figured it would all just kill him.”

Fletcher listens to him and then frowns. “I understand that he was making up the potion, but why not just rid himself of the spirit the typical way?”

Archer shakes his head, not understanding. “What do you mean ‘the typical way’? When a mage takes in a spirit or demon, that’s it. That’s why people fear them and destroys abominations.”

“No, that’s not _it_ ,” Fletcher insists. “Anders was a powerful mage, was he not? I know Varric’s stories were inflated, but he is painted to be an incredibly talented spirit healer – a very rare type of mage. He could have easily purged himself of the spirit.”

Archer can feel his face growing hot as he sits up. “He was insanely powerful. If there was a way, he would have done it.”

“There is a way,” Fletcher says. “My people do it all the time. The Nevarrans as well. Lady, even _I’ve_ done it.”

“What in the Void are you saying, Fletcher?”

“I’m saying that if Anders had actually wanted Justice out of him, he could have done it. I’m saying that Anders didn’t do it because he never really wanted to.”


	39. Chapter 39

Archer stares at Fletcher, absolutely stunned by what he’s insinuating. It goes against what he’d come to know about his former partner, and, if true, leaves him with even less closure than he’s had before.

It would be foolish for Archer to pretend like he ever really understood the complex relationship between Anders and Justice. Try as he might, the concept of spirits was a bit beyond him. As a non-mage, the only dealings he ever had with them, outside of Anders, were confusing at best, and always in the Fade where he never should have been in the first place. Anders never spent much time trying to delve into what it was to be joined with Justice, at least not in a way Archer could easily grasp. But it had always seemed like their relationship was more tumultuous than symbiotic, and there was more than one occasion where Anders had expressed interest in at least having time alone from the ever-present essence of Justice.

“You-you didn’t know him,” Archer says finally, after what seems like minutes of silence. “Just because you read that book doesn’t mean you knew him or what he would want or what he would be capable of. If he could have done it, he would have.” _Right?_

Fletcher frowns. “I’m not saying that I know him, and I would never insinuate that I could know more about him than you did. He just seems very intelligent and well-read. I would assume he would be aware of how easily it can be done.”

“I don’t think we had any books on the Avvar in my library. And he grew up in the Circle; they surely wouldn’t have books with information going against the Chantry’s teachings in there,” Archer says, defensively. He’s not sure if he’s trying to convince Fletcher or himself more.

“Well, if you did have them, clearly _you_ hadn’t read any of them. You didn’t even know why we throw goats,” Fletcher says, smiling.

Fletcher’s clear attempt to try to lighten the mood isn’t working on Archer, however. His mind is a sea of ‘what ifs’.

“If he had known what the Avvar can do, would he even have been able to do it?” Archer asks.

“Yes, I believe so,” Fletcher says. “We’ve already established that he’s an extremely powerful mage. I wouldn’t expect him to fail.”

“I just mean -” Archer looks off, trying to form his words. “He wasn’t an Avvar, you know? Maybe it’s not something he would be able to do because he’s not one of your people.”

Fletcher shakes his head. “I’m not Avvar by birth, remember? Any mage who wishes to can interact with spirits, and that’s what we do when we train to become augurs. We take a spirit into us and we must expel them. Very few mages have difficulty ridding themselves of spirits with proper training, and those who fail tend to be very weak-minded. Anders would have had no trouble if he was half the mage Varric described him to be.

“Besides, like I said, it’s not just an Avvar thing. The Nevarrans have been doing it for centuries. Sure, their practices are a bit more secretive than ours are, but I still believe that, with enough digging, Anders could have been able to find what information was needed to perform such a task.”

“What if he didn’t think he could do it because of the taint?”

“I don’t know,” Fletcher says. He gets off the bed and takes off his robe, hanging it back up in a wardrobe. “Why does this bother you so much, Archer?”

Archer doesn’t know how to answer without potentially hurting his feelings.

“Is it because you wonder how different things would have been had he been able to purge himself of Justice?” Fletcher asks.

“I-“ Archer feels his nerves sinking deep into the pit of his stomach. “Yes.”

Fletcher nods and climbs into bed next to Archer, lying back against the headboard. “It’s understandable. Even the smallest action can shake the ground, while something as huge as their potential departure from one another could change the course of history in an incredibly drastic way. I, for one, am glad they never disconnected.”

“Ultimately, I am too,” Archer says. He turns his head to kiss Fletcher’s temple. “I’m glad it allowed me to be with you.”

“I’m happy for that, as well,” Fletcher says. “But even more so because he and Justice changed everything. Saved us, even.”

Archer shakes his head. “You should know by now that he didn’t start the mage/Templar war.”

Fletcher nods. “I know that, but that’s not what I meant.”

“Then what?”

“You’ve referred to Anders as a ‘catalyst’ before, and that’s exactly what he – and Justice – were,” Fletcher states. “If he and Justice hadn’t remained together, his outrage for what was happening to mages would never have grown to what it was. He would have either remained complacent, or he would have continued to sit by as a pacifist instead of a true activist.

“When he destroyed the Chantry, he kept Meredith from invoking the Right of Annulment on the Divine’s decree. If he hadn’t done this, and if she succeeded, there may not have been a rising up of all of the Circles. There may have been no war, there would have been no Conclave. You wouldn’t have grabbed Solas’ orb, ending with you in a position to stop Corypheus. And, since no one would have been there to come between Corypheus, Solas, and the orb, Solas may have been able to have it from the start, and he may have already destroyed the Veil and thus all of us.

“I don’t think Anders could have possibly known just how much good he would do in such a short time, but I believe – solely based on what little I know from Varric and yourself – that he knew that Thedas would be better off if he stayed merged with Justice than if he were freed of him.”

Archer has always known that Anders was an impressive and important man but hearing him painted in such a light after years of hearing negative whispers about him all across Thedas has him incredibly overwhelmed. Anders never longed for greatness; he longed to be free and to help others. The Anders he knew was selfless and kind, and Archer knew this with everything he was, even despite the hurt he suffered from when Anders left his side in the dead of night.

“How in the world did I ever end up your hero when it should have been him?” Archer asks.

“Just about every person in that book is a hero to me in some rights,” Fletcher admits. “There’s a woman who was sold into marriage by her own mother but rose to become a successful pirate despite everyone who dared to stand in her way. There’s a former slave who broke free from his abusive master and found a way to come into his own. A woman who lost her husband and former self but still managed to flee to a new city and become Captain of the Guard. I can go on, and on.”

Archer shakes his head, his emotions running high.

“You were the one they looked up to,” Fletcher says softly. “You were their hero, and so you became mine.”

“And you still hold me in the same light?” Archer asks. “After every lie I told.”

“It’s a different light. Muted maybe,” he says, laughing under his breath. “But you’re still Hawke – _Lady_ that’s strange to say! But you managed to save the world from Corypheus. Lies or not, you deserve a lot of credit.”

Archer slinks down and lies flat against the bed. He feels the mattress shift beside him as Fletcher follows suit at his left, nestling against his upper body. Archer wants so badly to wrap what remains of his arm around him, but he refuses to do so, not wanting to potentially repulse the man who still loves him despite everything he’s put him through.

“Fletcher?”

“Hm?”

“In trying to make it up to you, all the lying and such,” Archer says. “I promise that I’ll do anything you want or need. Answer any question to the best of my ability. But there’s just one thing I can’t do and I need you to swear to me that you won’t do.”

Fletcher doesn’t respond for several seconds. “Alright?”

“I don’t know how long it will take us to track down Solas, but I know that it may require us to part ways in order to gather intel to bring back to the group. Because the world knows I’m Hawke, it’s safe for us to potentially use my former contacts as help, and this may mean that you’ll meet some of my friends – some of your heroes.

“But no matter how desperate we are to stop Solas, I know that there is one person in this world that we cannot ask to help us. Anders has been through too much, and if he doesn’t present himself as an ally, we cannot solicit him in any way. I need you to promise me, Fletcher, that you won’t contact him for any reason.”

“I promise,” Fletcher says firmly. “I wouldn’t jeopardize our relationship like that. You have far too much history.”

“I wouldn’t leave you for him, if that’s what you’re insinuating.”

“You wouldn’t even consider it?”

“No,” Archer says. And, for the first time, he actually means it.


	40. Chapter 40

At midweek, Archer was given a bill of relatively good health by Celene’s main healer. The surgical incisions had been completely healed, and the stitches had been removed. The elderly mage refused to tell him he was in excellent health as there was no telling what kind of lasting effects the anchor may have on his body. The dark marks left just above his elbow hadn’t seemed to change since the surgery, so there was hope that it may take years or more for them to spread and hurt Archer. And it was all of their hopes that they would be able to find Solas before that time hit so that they could have him fix Archer entirely, should it be possible.

Archer and Fletcher set out to leave from Halamshiral on the Imperial Highway east back towards Ferelden. It is the first time Archer has ventured outside since his surgery, and Fletcher made sure that preparations are in order to make it easier for him. He had a palace armorer remove everything below the left elbow of Archer’s plate armor, including the couter, and he had him discard of the left gauntlet entirely. Fletcher also saw to it that Archer’s broadsword was sheathed and fixed to a strap on the back of his hart’s saddle so that he wouldn’t have to try to carry it.

The journey home is slower than they anticipated as Archer’s stamina is greatly reduced after spending so much time in bed. He also finds it difficult to control his hart with a single hand, but he keeps making light about it, blaming the animal for not adapting to the situation.

After eight days on the road, the pair have nearly made it back to Skyhold. The snow-capped Frostbacks are well in view, and Archer tries to prepare himself for the familiar shortness of breath he’s hit with every time he has to ascend the mountains.

As they are about to start turning their mounts south to the well-worn trail up to the castle, they’re ambushed from all four sides by a number of elven rogues. Fletcher jumps off his horse and grabs his staff, instantly sending out a surge of electricity at their foes.

Archer reaches for his greatsword and is thrown off balance completely. The steel has always been heavy, but he’s not used to holding it entirely in one hand. While leaning off to the side under its weight, he finds himself gripping so tightly to his hart with his thighs that it causes the beast to buck up and forward. Archer is thrown back onto the ground, and his sword falls on top of him, the blade just barely missing his neck.

“Archer!” Fletcher yells as soon as he catches sight of the helpless warrior. He shoots a fireball towards an approaching elf, and then he runs over to him.

Archer groans and grabs the sword by the grip. He manages to pull it off of himself and hops up as quickly as he can, barely missing twin daggers thrust into the ground right where he just laid. He knows his limited strength won’t lend him the speed required to attack his enemy with his sword, so he kicks the unsuspecting elf square in the nose with enough force to kill him instantly.

“Fools!” Archer yells, wide smile on his face. “I don’t need two hands to kill you all. How _dare_ you attac-“

Archer is cut off as two elves rush him from behind. They both jump on his back, knocking him to his chest on the ground. The skin pulled and sewn together over Archer’s elbow is thin and fragile, and it starts to painfully abrade against the rocky terrain as he desperately tries to move away.

There’s a loud crack in the air, and Archer finds himself able to get up, the weight off of his back completely disappearing. As he stands, he finds the elves in the hands of several rage demons who are pulling them apart limb from limb. Archer looks around and finds Fletcher, his arm bleeding from the magic required to perform such a thing. Before he knows it, the demons are being thrust through a small tear in the Veil, and Fletcher closes it up.

“Are you alright?” Archer asks. He walks over to him, griping the greatsword in his hand as he drags it alongside of him. The point draws a line as it scrapes across the dirt.

“I think I should be asking you that,” Fletcher says as he applies pressure to his self-inflicted wound.

Archer smiles. “I’m fine, of course. It was nothing this dream team couldn’t handle.”

“Lift your sword,” Fletcher commands.

“Excuse me?”

“Lift it, Archer.”

“Why?” Archer asks. He does so anyway, bending his elbow to swing it around and lift it up into the air. Just a few seconds pass before his elbow starts to involuntarily lower and his upper arm shake. He lets it fall again.

“We’ll get Miguel to craft you a new sword. Maybe a nice sabre-“

“No,” Archer says, cutting him off quickly.

“I just think it would be easier-“

“I said no, Fletcher.” Archer uses every ounce of strength he has to lift the greatsword up and carries it over to the hart, sheathing it in place. Then he grabs onto the pommel of the saddle, stirrups his right foot, and kicks himself off of the ground to sit on top of his mount.

Fletcher shakes his head as he watches the other man. “Look, Archer, I know you’re still an incredibly capable man, but you’ve got certain limitations now that you can’t pretend you don’t have.”

“Loot the bodies and then get on your horse,” Archer instructs. “We can still make it to Skyhold by nightfall if we hurry.”

“Getting a smaller sword doesn’t make you weaker,” Fletcher says as he starts to loot what’s left of the elven corpses. “Please tell me you don’t have a size complex.”

“Fuck you!” Archer spits. He kicks at his hart, beckoning it to start trotting forward.

Fletcher grumbles and collects what he can before jumping onto his horse to follow the other man.

“You don’t get it, Fletcher,” Archer shouts back at him. He waits until Fletcher catches up to keep talking to him. “I can’t just get a new sword; mine has great sentimental value.”

“I don’t doubt that. But you don’t have to get rid of it. We could always hang it in a place of honor. Retire it, essentially.” Fletcher points to the staff on his back. “And believe me: I know what it’s like to have a weapon mean something to you. Seri, my former wife, carved the fox head in this for me. I would be very sad to not be able to use it anymore, but I would use another one if I really had to.”

“But losing an arm wouldn’t mean you’d have to stop using it,” Archer says. “My whole identity has been in being a two-handed warrior. I swing a big sword. I demolish people. I can’t even be a lousy sword and shield warrior!”

Fletcher smiles at him. “I promise not to tell Cassandra you said that.”

Archer returns the smile, weakly, but then his face grows solemn once more. “I thought I could handle this, Fletcher, but how am I ever supposed to get anything done? I couldn’t put on a single piece of my bloody armor without you. I couldn’t keep up in the fight. I’m lucky I can take a piss by myself!”

“I’ll admit, I’m glad I don’t have to help you out with that last one. But I want to help you in whatever other capacity I can, Archer. You’re not weak, I promise you that. You’ve just got to make some adjustments. You’ll switch to a smaller sword. Maybe you command more than you run out and fight. Maybe I get to ride you more often.”

“How can you even _think_ of having sex with me?” Archer asks.

“Because I love you?”

“But look at me! I’m all fucked up. I can’t do shit. I can’t even take care of you, so how can I save the world? I should have just let the arm kill me.”

Fletcher frowns and then leans over to smack the back of Archer’s head.

“Hey!” Archer mutters, rubbing the sting from his head.

“Archer, don’t you dare do this,” Fletcher barks at him. “Don’t you dare suggest that I would ever find you less attractive just because you’ve gone and lost half your arm! The only thing I find more unattractive about you now is this piss poor attitude you’ve adopted.

“I may not have always known exactly who you were, but the Archer Hawke of legend wouldn’t have acted like this,” Fletcher continues. “When you lost your brother to the ogre, did you give up?”

“No…”

“No,” Fletcher concurs. “You kept moving, helped Aveline, and you made a deal with Flemeth to get your family to Kirkwall. And, when you got there and found out that you couldn’t petition for your family estate without enough coin, did you give up?”

“No.”

“Exactly,” Fletcher says. “You worked with the smugglers, got into the city, earned even more coin, and went on the Deep Roads Expedition. And, when the Qunari-“

“I don’t need you to recount everything I’ve ever done, Fletcher.”

Fletcher reaches out to grab the reins of Archer’s hart while simultaneously pulling on his horse’s reins, stopping both of the mounts so that he can look at the other man without the distraction of the road ahead.

“Archer Hawke doesn’t give up, even when the world has fucked him a million times over,” Fletcher says. “I don’t care if you’ve got one arm or no arms at all; you’re going to make some adjustments to your life and stick it out with me. I think you’re the only person in Thedas with a chance to stop Solas, and I’m not going to let you throw that away because you’ve got to get a smaller sword.”

“You’re really not put off by it? All the things I’ll need help with?”

“No,” Fletcher says sternly. “You’ve spent forever taking care of everyone else. Let someone else take care of you for once.”


	41. Chapter 41

The pair make it back to Skyhold without any other fuss or fight. Over the past few years, the Inquisition’s numbers have grown substantially, but the castle was far less full than it had been a few weeks ago when Archer last set foot here. The news of the Inquisition formally disbanding meant that very few people were able to continue to stay there. The sovereigns amassed over the years were only going to be able to pay a few stable hands, blacksmiths, chefs, and maids to keep up with everything unless their underground network allowed for more.

Even with so few people, all eyes fall upon Archer as he makes his ways past the gates and into the grounds. Word has spread of his arm and his true identity, and no one is quite sure how to respond to him. He does his best to put on his best ‘I’m completely fine; I’m Archer-fucking-Hawke’ smirk, and he dismounts off of his hart, allowing a stable boy to take the mount.

Inside the castle, Archer and Fletcher make their way to the War Table room. There they find Cassandra, who greets them warmly.

“I’m glad to see you have made it back, Inquisitor, Fletcher.”

“I wonder if we should perhaps drop that title considering that we’ve officially disbanded,” Archer suggests.

“Officially, yes, but our organization still remains as an underground entity. You are still our leader, and you are still to act as an Inquisitor would in the search for Solas.”

Archer frowns. “Can I not just go by Archer for once?”

“Perhaps the ‘One-Handed Wonder’?” Fletcher asks.

Archer smacks him and smiles. “’Inquisitor’ it is.”

“Right,” Cassandra says with the slightest smile forming on her lips. “Blackwall, Cole, and The Iron Bull with his Chargers have all managed to return to aid us. Josephine will be arriving in the coming weeks. Varric has to return to Kirkwall but is sending out word to some of your former, mutual contacts to see if they can be of any service to us.

“Not _him_ , I assure you,” she reassures as soon as she sees the worry on Archer’s face. “Vivienne and Divine Victoria both remain in Orlais and will stay there. Vivienne says she will keep her ears out for anything happening out west, but I doubt she’ll come up with much. The Divine will do her best to keep Orlais and Ferelden’s powers that be off of our tails and will continue to use her spies to aid us secretly. Sera’s Red Jennies will lend service if called upon. And Dorian has headed back to Tevinter to take up his place as a Magister, but he will use what abilities he has to keep an eye out for word of Solas up north.”

“Seems like we’ve still got the whole crew together,” Archer says. “I honestly wasn’t expecting everyone’s loyalty still after everyone found out who I really was.”

Cassandra sits on the edge of the table and sighs. “You became dear friends to all of us, and you saved the world. It is hard to remain upset with someone when you would go to the ends of Thedas for them.”

“Everything always works out for Archer Hawke,” Fletcher says, patting his shoulder.

“For now we need to try to piece together anything we can to figure out where to start,” Cassandra says. “When you spoke to Solas, did he give you any indication where he might be going? Any place where we could possibly send out scouts?”

Archer thinks hard on his final conversation with Solas, but parts of it are still fuzzy. After his arm was nearly ripped off of him, he passed out, and pieces of that day were still coming back to him in small snippets.

“Nothing obvious,” Archer says. “I just know that he wants to destroy the Veil and restore Thedas to his people. Tevinter is where elven history starts, is it not? Maybe we should head there.”

“I’d rather wait for Dorian to send word that he’s made it back,” Cassandra says. “If he can do some digging and confirm this, then we can go forward. We have few resources, and I don’t want us to waste them without enough evidence. What if Fletcher asks Mythal to help us?”

“No,” Archer protests. “We can’t just ask Mythal for more help. Fletcher’s bound to her, and it could only make whatever fate he has with her worse if he gets more favors from her. Besides, she’s an elven god; she may actually want Solas to succeed.”

“I’ve already asked for her a few times, and she doesn’t answer me,” Fletcher says. “When Archer slept, I begged her to fix him and she could use me for whatever else she needed. But she never came, and I didn’t even hear the whispers. It felt like she had just…gone. But I may have something to help us.”

Fletcher turns and opens the satchel on his hip. He reaches inside and pulls out a rolled-up piece of worn parchment, and he hands it to Archer. “I found this on one of the bodies of the elves who attacked us.”

“You were attacked by elves and didn’t think to mention this as soon as you got here?” Cassandra asks. She follows it with an annoyed groan. “Was this while you were passing The Dales?”

“It was a complicated moment. But no, we never went far enough south to be in The Dales. We followed the highway, and we were nearly at Skyhold when this happened,” Archer says. He unrolls the parchment and tries to read it. “It’s in elvish tongue. I can’t make anything out.”

Cassandra rubs her forehead in frustration. “We have no elves within our ranks any more. They all left to become agents to Fen’Harel it would seem save for Charter. But she remains with the Divine. Perhaps we can locate Morrigan, though she’s been tricky to keep track of after she left with Kieran since the fight with Corypheus…”

“I might be able to read it,” Fletcher says.

“I thought you told me you hadn’t heard the voices,” Archer says.

“I haven’t heard them since Corypheus,” Fletcher admits. “But I picked up a little elvish from them.”

“It’s the only hope we’ve got other than kidnapping an elf and forcing them to read it to us,” Cassandra says.

Fletcher takes back the parchment and studies intensely. “I can’t understand much. But it says something about Fen’Harel…the Storm Coast. Stop the…bird? Falcon?”

“The Hawke?” Archer asks.

Fletcher nods. “That’s all I can read, but there’s also a symbol at the bottom. It looks like a dragon skull, I think.”

Cassandra takes the parchment from Fletcher and looks at the symbol. “That’s the mark of Clan Alerion. They’re native to Nevarra.”

That clan name sounds familiar to Archer, but he doesn’t know quite where to place it. To his knowledge, the only person he’d ever known from Nevarra was Cassandra, and she certainly was no elf.

“Why would Solas send Nevarran elves after us?” Archer asks. “Wouldn’t it make more sense, geographically, to send out Ferelden or Orlesian clans? Even those in the Marches would be closer.”

“Perhaps he’s in Nevarra,” Cassandra suggests. “I can send word to my family and trusted friends back home to search for any sign of him. But for now, the Storm Coast is the only lead we have. We should set out as soon as possible.”

“About that,” Archer says. He looks at Fletcher to find an ounce of strength, and then looks back to Cassandra. “I’m not sure how capable I’m going to be of fighting any more. It may be best if I send people out and do more of the delegating from back here in Skyhold.”

Cassandra scoffs. “Nonsense. You have limitations, but you are needed in the field. We set out tomorrow. In the meantime, your friend Miguel asked me to send you his way as soon as our meeting adjourned. He is with Dagna in their workshop.”

~oOo~

Knowing that Cassandra is no woman to argue with, Archer and Fletcher leave the War Table room. Fletcher decides to retreat to their room to take a much-needed bath while Archer goes to find his friend in the undercroft. It’s been a long time since he’s seen Miguel, who has been spending most of his time running around with The Chargers. It’s been even longer, however, since he’s seen the jovial young dwarf, and he’s excited to be met by both of them with constricting hugs.

“I’ve missed you both as well,” Archer huffs out as he’s released from Miguel. Dagna takes her time letting go of his thighs, but he doesn’t mind it.

“We’ve been hard at work preparing for your return,” Dagna tells him. “We’ve got so many things planned for you!”

“I’ve got your sword all ready for you, Archer,” Miguel says.

Archer shakes his head. “Miguel, I can’t even imagine using anything but the one you made for me back in Kirkwall. It’s the only thing I have left of-“

Miguel cuts him off. “Which is exactly why you’re going to continue to use _that_ sword.” He walks over to a table and pulls a cloth off the top of a sword. When he holds it up, Archer can see that it’s his same silver sword with the dragon etched in, eyes encrusted with sapphires.

“How did you-“

“We saw you ride in,” Miguel says. “Got it from the stable boy since you left it on your hart, and then I got Dagna to enchant it. Take it.”

Archer reaches out for it, prepared to be near-instantly over encumbered by the weight of it in his one hand. But, as he takes it, he finds that the sword, though visually identical to how it’s always been, weighs about a quarter of what it used to. With a smile, he steps back and starts to stab and slice at the air in front of him without the slightest bit of difficulty.

“Do you love it?” Dagna asks, excitedly bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Miguel came up with the concept – he knew you’d want the same sword, but would have trouble, what with one less hand, of course. We’ve worked on this since the day we caught word of what happened, and it looks like the enchantment works flawlessly.”

“Of course it’s flawless,” Archer says, absolutely beaming.         

“And that’s not all it can do,” Miguel says. “We’ve worked with Harritt to put together a special gauntlet for you that works with the sword to turn it into a ranged weapon as well.”

Archer furrows his brow. “How?”

“If you-“

Dagna cuts off Miguel in her excitement. “If you throw the sword at an enemy, it will be magnetically pulled back and into your gauntlet!”

“Yes, that,” Miguel says shaking his head. “We’ve got to test it out, but it should work. Would you care to try it?”

“Maker, yes!”

Archer puts on the gauntlet and takes up the sword once again. It feels like nothing out of the ordinary, and he’s able to move the sword with speed that has never been possible before.

He looks out at a hay figure with a target crudely painted onto its middle set out near the edge of the undercroft, where water can be seen trickling down the open cave mouth. Archer takes a step back with his right foot, swings back the sword, and sends it flying out of his hand.

The steel turns over and over as it glides through the air. As it approaches the target, it slices expertly through the middle, and then it whips back towards him. Archer plants his feet firmly, prepared for impact. The grip of the sword lands perfectly within his gauntleted hand.

“Fucking amazing,” he mutters under shaky breath.

“We’re geniuses,” Miguel boasts as he bends his large frame down to extend a hand out to one overly-excited Dagna.

“That we are, _Rojo_!” After shaking his hand, Dagna walks over to Archer with some rope. “Now kneel down and hold still. I need to take some measurements for our next project.”


	42. Chapter 42

With a new way to battle, Archer finds himself more than ready to head out to the Storm Coast along with Fletcher, Cassandra, and The Iron Bull. Though it’s been some time since any of them have gone to this northern-most tip of Ferelden, the Coast is just as they remember. The skies are dark, the air is humid, and the geometrically perfect rock formations are slick with the Waking Sea’s salty waters.

It’s hard to know where to begin, as the Inquisition no longer has the resources to send scouts out ahead of them. There’s a lot of ground to cover, and the tricky terrain doesn’t make riding on mounts the easiest way to travel. So they set out on foot and start at the western-most reaches, figuring that it’s the closest place the Nevarrans may have made it to when travelling from either their homeland or just outside of Skyhold.

The hunt for the rebel elves isn’t going as easily as they had hoped, however, and three days into their search they haven’t had much luck. The weather has grown increasingly difficult to bear as the initial sprinkling turns into torrential downpours and brilliant shows of lightning across the sky, fitting of this place’s name. Any and all trails the group thought they had found are completely destroyed by the weather, and the group has no choice but to wait it out.

As they rest, the increasingly cold and wet weather starts to take a toll on Archer. He doesn’t tell anyone he’s starting to feel bad, not even Fletcher, desperately hoping to keep himself in the best spirits he can muster. He knows that his friends are counting on him, and, with the new equipment set up by Miguel, Dagna, and Harritt, he feels he has even more of a reason not to give up. Even with his elbow starting to ache and a dull heat starting to climb up his arm, he’s determined to keep on with their quest as soon as the weather dies down.

On the fourth day on the coast, the sun finally begins to shine, and the group manages to set out as dawn arrives. They continue east until they reach West Hill, and finally they have a concrete sign of the elves. High up on the hilltop, they can see a thin trail of smoke rising up into the air. As they cautiously approach, they see a lone elf trying to put out a fire in a small make-shift camp.

Suddenly, the elf spots them, and she shouts out behind her in elvish. Within seconds, at least two dozen elves make themselves seen, and a sea of arrows starts to rain down over Archer and his companions.

Cassandra pushes herself to the front of the group and raises her shield to block them from the incoming arrows.

Before the next set of arrows can be expelled, the underground Inquisition group starts to launch their own attack. Fletcher stays where he is, shooting waves of mixed fire and electricity towards the elves. The three warriors rush forward, attacking head on.

Archer has his eyes set on an elven mage who appears to be the leader of the group. As he runs towards her, he throws his sword directly at her core. The elf forms a wall of stone around her, and Archer’s sword clatters against it before falling to the ground. Archer makes a fist with his gauntlet and pulls his elbow back. To his amazement, the sword comes shooting towards him, and the grip lands firmly in his hand.

“Na melana sahlin!” the elf spits at him as the stone wall she created crumbles in front of him.

She beats her staff against the ground which starts to rumble. The earth cracks beneath her staff and quickly travels forward until it’s right under Archer’s feet. A wide crevasse opens up and he falls into it. In his own desperation to keep himself from falling into the dark abyss below him, he lets go of his sword and tries to grip at the walls of earth with his hand. He’s unable to grab onto anything, though, and he falls and falls until he lands hard on his back.

Archer groans as he tries to sit up, but he’s hurt and it’s dark and his ears are ringing. He lays there until the ringing starts to subside, replaced by footsteps and foreign murmurs. The darkness fades as well when bright orange torchlight fills the space. He can barely see the sky above him from where he dropped, but he can see that he’s in some sort of cave below the hill.

“Masal din’an!”

“Fuck off!” Archer barks.

He feels numerous hands grab onto him, forcing him up off the ground. He kicks out and tries to push them away with his hand, but there are far too many for him to manage. In the fiery light from the torches, he can see that he’s surrounded by five elves, all with tanned skin and garb to match the ones he’s fought off twice now.

“Fen’Harel ma halam,” one says to him, clearly in elvish but with an accent similar to Cassandra’s.

“I’m a human, you morons,” Archer says. “You’ll have to speak in common tongue if you want me to understand anything but ‘Dread Wolf’.”

“Stupid shem!” one of the elves yells. “Do not speak of Fen’Harel!”

“You’re the one who brought him u-“

Archer is cut off by a blow to his jaw. He spits out blood and snarls at the elf who hit him.

“Get him into the cage!” the elf orders in common, no doubt doing it so that Archer could dare to try to fight back.

But Archer allows the elves to drag him forward and into a steel cage at the back of the dark, damp cave. They toss him in, and he turns quickly to avoid falling onto his left elbow.

Once he’s locked in, the elves all walk way, leaving him in the dark.

“I guess I’ll just wait here!” he yells out into the dark nothingness before him.

Not three minutes pass before light starts to form in the distance. The elves start to reappear, but this time, there’s a sixth member to their ranks. Once they’re closer, Archer recognizes the new elf to be the one he met on the hill who caused the ground to crack.

“Fen’Harel wishes to do this peacefully,” she says to him calmly.

Archer laughs. “Does he? This sure does seem rather peaceful.”

“He asks that you allow him to perform his duty without interfering,” she says. “If you grant him his solitude, he will find a way to spare you and your lover when the time comes to restore the world to what it once was.”

“Oh how kind of him!” Archer scoffs. “Offering us to be two lone _shems_ in a world full of people who thought the world was better off for elves alone.”

“The world was once ours!” one of the male elves spat back. “We deserve our kingdom after everything we’ve been through. We will restore it through Fen’Harel!”

Archer frowned. “Your people don’t deserve to be outcasts or second-class to humans, I agree. But you can’t pretend like your kind didn’t have a hand in this. Solas created the Veil. Civil War caused your peoples’ downfall. Yes, humans exploited you and it’s inexcusable, but don’t act lik-“

“That is enough,” the female mage says, interrupting Archer. “Will you surrender and remain peaceful? Fen’Harel has a great respect for you, and he wants you to leave from this unscathed.”

“So, he needed you to attack me in order to tell me this?” Archer asks. “Why not just send me a nice letter? He could have sent a bard to sing me his message after all he’s done.”

“The attack that took place near Skyhold was simply to subdue you enough to have you brought to me for discussion. Instead, you killed our people, but you have managed to find your way to me regardless,” the elf says.

“Perhaps if you want someone to come and talk to you, you could also consider asking nicely. Maybe it’s not a Nevarran custom, but we Fereldans usually fight back when bombarded by attacking rogues.”

The elven woman shakes her head, her calm countenance growing frustrated. “Regardless of what happened, I need to see to it that you leave Fen’Harel alone to do his work. He says he needs your word, and that is it.”

“You do realize that the world he wants to restore has no place in it for you, right?” Archer asks.

“We have been granted a place in it for our service,” she says.

“You’re a fool. If you think Solas is going to allow that, you’re even more mad than he is.” Archer stands up. “I think there’s still a possibility that he can be redeemed, shown a different way. But it’s not going to be with me standing idly by. I’m not about to let him destroy the world just so that myself and my lover can continue to be.”

The elf frowns. “Then so be it.” She turns to the other elves and says something to them in elvish before turning to leave.

“So, what’s it going to be, boys?” Archer asks.

He can see that four of the elves are readying spears. Each of them pushes the ends of the spears through the openings of the cage, pointing them against his neck or at weak points in his armor. Archer stands as still as he possibly can for fear of being harmed further by them.

The fifth elf holds a torchn through an opening between the cage’s steel bars. After snapping his fingers, the fire’s orange flames turn a teal color _. Veilfire._ He holds the flame out right under Archer’s left elbow.

The heat dances across his thin, scarred skin. The nerves haven’t all come back after the surgery, but it starts to burn away at the flesh. As it crawls up his arm, he starts to feel the unbearable heat, and he yells out in pain. Desperately, he tries to move away, but the points of the spears keep him in place as they jab into his skin. He can barely think, but something deep in his unconscious mind tells him to open his right hand. In the distance, he hears the air cut as his blade comes whirling towards him. It slices through enough of the elves to distract the ones that remain standing which allows Archer to move away from spears and flame.

With sword now in hand, Archer is able to stab between the steel bars of the cage until each of the living elves fall. He crouches down and manages to find a set of keys on the elf who held the torch, and he maneuvers his right arm out of the cage in order to unlock the it, freeing himself of his prison. With only one hand, he has to drop the keys to pick up his sword again, and he slits each elven throat to ensure none of them come back after him. Then he sheathes his sword, grabs the torch, and he runs forward.

Luckily enough, the path is a straight shot out of the cave. Once he gathers his bearings, he climbs back up the hill to find each of his friends still alive but bound together – back to back to back – by rope.

“Mas enasalin lasa revas dennar!” he hears screamed out in the distance. It’s the same elven woman who he had spoken to in the cave.

Archer rushes forward towards her, screaming at the top of his lungs. Before she can lift her staff to defend herself, he leaps on top of her and stabs her right through the heart.

“The Dread Wolf guides you,” he mutters as he stands, pulling his sword out of her.

“Inquisitor, you live!” Cassandra yells from behind him.

Archer turns and runs to them. He slices through the rope that binds them with his sword, and then he drops it to hug Fletcher deeply.

“Love, you’re hurt,” Fletcher says, looking at his bruised and bloodied jaw.

“No, it’s fine,” Archer says.

“Doesn’t look fine, boss.” The Iron Bull points to what remains of his left arm. Though it’s hard to tell at first glance because his armor so dark, the stump remaining is scorched just as black as his armor is.

“Dear Andraste,” Cassandra mutters.

Bull and Fletcher work quickly to try to get Archer’s breastplate and shoulder guards off of him to assess the damage on Archer’s arm. His skin is entirely black midway up his upper arm, and the dark tendrils that once sat there have seemingly snaked their way up over his shoulder, extending a few centimeters down his chest and the side of his neck.

“Archer, doesn’t that hurt?” Fletcher asks him, his voice nearly pleading in his panic from the sight.

“I don’t know it just-AHHGHHH!”

As soon as Bull grazes one of the tendrils with his fingertip, Archer falls to his knees, screaming in pain. He topples over to the side, writhing in similar pain to what he felt when he last stood before Solas.

Fletcher drops to his knees in front of Archer and tries to heal him with what little healing magic he knows. The pain seems to subside minimally, allowing Archer to breathe between whimpers rather than screams.

“We have to get him back to Skyhold,” Cassandra says.

“He’s in no state to travel!” Fletcher yells.

“We can stay until you run out of mana to help him, but eventually we’ve got to get him somewhere that’s at least safe. Who knows if there are other elves out here waiting to attack us?”

“Seeker’s right,” Bull says. “You keep working on him, Fletcher, and then I’ll carry him back if I have to. We weren’t prepared for this, and I’d hate to see what else that crazy egghead has up his sleeves.”


	43. Chapter 43

“I’m fine,” Archer insists. “We’ve got an elf to stop and a world to save, so you all need to move so we can have this meeting in the War Table room like usual.”

“Under no circumstances are you to get up,” Fletcher says sternly.

“As the Inquisitor, I order everyone to move. This instant!”

Fletcher, Cassandra, and Josephine - who had just arrived back to Skyhold from Orlais - all do as he asks and back away. Archer sits up, and the smug smile that had grown across his face quickly dissolves into a pained scowl.

“Lay back down,” Fletcher orders him as he gently pushes Archer by the right shoulder to lie flat in his bed. “The healers don’t want you moving, so this is our headquarters for now.”

“Until I’m better,” Archer says.

“Yes,” Fletcher says weakly.

As soon as the group had arrived back to Skyhold from the Storm Coast, Archer was rushed into the medical ward. Only a few healers remained on the castle grounds, and they all went to him to assess the situation as quickly as possible. The burns on his elbow and lower forearm were deep, down to his bone. With the right herbs and spells, the healers were able to repair most of the damage and keep infection at bay.

The real problem was the black tendrils left from the original anchor. They seemed to be creeping along Archer’s body, spreading a few millimeters each day. Any contact with them caused excruciating pain to him, so much so that he wasn’t even able to wear the thinnest of undershirts without wailing out. All the salves and pain potions in the castle were tried, and nothing seemed to sooth his hurt.

This type of injury and magic was beyond the healers, and they recommended that the underground Inquisition look into others who may be able to offer more help.

With the anchor being ancient elven magic, there was hope that a Dalish Keeper may be of service, but it was hard enough to find any Dalish elves who weren’t loyal to Solas at this point. The next suggestion was to look to Tevinter and see if any powerful healers would know of arcane healing methods that had not been used regularly in the South. And finally, they recommended looking into powerful spirit healers. Knowing who would be suggested, Archer refused and told them to keep looking towards Tevinter.

Word was sent off to Tevinter, and enough time passed to get Archer well enough to have him walk all the way up to his room. Moving any further than that took everything out of him, and he found himself relying on Fletcher for just about everything. Luckily, the Avvar mage was happy to help him.

“Drink this,” Fletcher says, handing Archer a small vial.

Archer does as he’s told, and hands the emptied vial back to the other man, gagging at the bitter aftertaste. “What is it?”

“It’s something I came up with for pain. We don’t want your mind focused on the hurt while we’re having our meeting.”

“Tastes like horse piss.”

“Like you’d know what that tastes like.”

“Alright, I’m here, I brought it.” The Iron Bull stomps up the stairs and meets the group in Archer’s room. In his hand, he has a pink translucent crystal about the size of a dinner roll. He hands it to Josephine, who then places it on the end of the bed.

“How do we use it, Bull?” she asks.

“I dunno, you’ve got to say some ‘Vint crap.” Bull walks over to it and mutters ‘amatus’ at it, and then it starts to glow.

“Hello, all!”

Everyone looks around, stunned at the cheerful, familiar voice echoing out of nowhere.

“What kind of witchcraft is this?” Cassandra asks, peering at the crystal with narrowed eyes.

“Nice to hear from you too, Seeker,” Dorian says through the crystal. “A bit of genius is what it is. This is a sending crystal, of course. Allows us to talk over great distances. How is everyone getting on?”

“Never better!” Archer says.

“He’s been significantly better,” Fletcher corrects.

“Yes, I’m sorry to hear about your arm, dear friend,” Dorian says. “I assure you I’ve got all the healers I know looking into ancient texts and rituals that may be able to help you. As soon as someone knows anything, I’ll be sure to send them your way.”

Archer nods. “I appreciate that, Dorian. But really, I’m more concerned with anything you may have dug up on Solas.”

“I’m sure you’re all aware that there is a town in Tevinter called ‘Solas’,” Dorian says. “I thought, surely, someone as smart as an old elven god wouldn’t dare go somewhere so obvious. But then I remembered that our dear Inquisitor friend kept his old name despite changing identities and thought it might be worth a look.

“Just south of Solas lies an area known as The Silent Plains. There’s an old elven ruin there, and there’s been a suspicious amount of activity that’s been taken place. I sent a few members of my staff to investigate, and it’s overrun with Dalish elves.”

“I thought there were no Dalish left in Tevinter,” Cassandra says.

“There aren’t…or there weren’t,” Dorian says. “But there were hundreds and more arriving by the minute. Most appeared to be Nevarran, I’m told. The Nevarran border lies upon The Silent Plains.”

“That explains our attackers,” Fletcher says.

“You think it’s a place we can infiltrate?” Bull asks.

Dorian pauses for a moment. He and Bull have been together for several years now. Though their relationship was mostly casual and polyamorous, given Miguel, there was no doubt that Dorian cared significantly for Bull and didn’t want to see him in harm’s way.

“I think there’s no way that any of you would manage to get inside with that number,” he says. “You would all stick out. Wrong ear length, and all.”

“There aren’t many elves left that wouldn’t be swayed by Solas,” Josephine says. “City elves would be our best bet if we can find enough. Perhaps Sera, though I fear she would say something off-color and end up in a bad situation.”

“I know a few people,” Archer says. “Josephine, let’s write to Varric.”

~oOo~

After word is sent to Varric, a long waiting game plays out to see if any plan at all can be formed. The dwarf has to make contact, and an agreement has to be reached if it’s even possible. Knowing it might take months for anything to play out, the rest of the remaining underground Inquisition waits as patiently as possible.

Dorian managed to send three healers down to Skyhold to look at and assess Archer. All three of them performed rituals, one brewed a few concoctions, and one even attempted a blood sacrifice before he could be stopped by both Archer and Fletcher pleading with him. But not a single thing they did gave any pause to the ever-growing tendrils.

Augurs from Fletcher’s tribe came to see the warrior as well. There were attempts to have spirits heal Archer, an attempt to have a spirit take on the anchor entirely, and, even though Archer isn’t a mage, one augur even attempts to merge a spirit inside of Archer to collect the anchor. As with the blood sacrifice, Archer protested, and he was left near where he started before the Avvar mages stepped foot into the castle.

Miguel even set out for several weeks in search of Void Stars, the same substance that healed his former master, but there were none to be found. The rifts in the Veil had long since been closed, and any of the precious rubies that may have formed had either been picked from the earth or destroyed. He sent word back to Antiva and to any other high-end jeweler he knew, desperate to find one. Unfortunately, no one could help them.

With all of these failed attempts, Archer was growing weaker by the day. His body was deteriorating as he became bed-ridden. Any movement he made hurt him more and more, and any resistance he had seemed to make the tendrils spread further over his body. While they were once just a few thin branches over his arm and shoulder, the majority of his torso was now covered with the dark, tortuous marks.

Despite the toll this is taking on Archer, Fletcher works tirelessly to try to find anything that can help him. Every book in Skyhold now sits in stacks in their shared room, and there are hundreds of beakers and potions piled upon the desk. The only time he leaves Archer’s side is to collect food for him or herbs from the garden. He never stops, hardly eats. The only time he sleeps is when he passes out on a pile of his notes.

“You remind me of someone,” Archer says weakly as he watches Fletcher nodding off with his nose in a book.

“What’s that?” Fletcher asks, the words muffled by a yawn.

“Nothing, my love.” Archer smiles at him and then looks over to a chest the corner of the room. “Fletcher, there’s something in there that I want you to have.”

Fletcher gets up from his chair and sets down his book, dog-earring the page so he can come back to it. He walks over to the chest and opens it.

“What is it?” he asks, staring inside.

“You’re a smart enough boy to know what a key is by now,” Archer laughs. He starts to cough harshly, and Fletcher rushes to him, offering him a sip of water as he sits down next to him on the bed.

“I know what a key is, Archer. What’s it for?”

“It’s a key to my estate back in Kirkwall. You may not want it, but it’s yours. For after you destroy Solas,” He carefully places his frail hand on Fletcher’s knee. “I’m done for, kid. And I’m okay with that. I just need to know you’ve got a place of your own. And something to remember me by.”


	44. Chapter 44

“Archer Hawke, don’t you dare talk like that,” Fletcher says, taking his hand in his own.

“I’m done, Fletcher. Everything hurts. I can feel it in my veins and in my bones. There’s no stopping it at this point, and I don’t want to fight it anymore.” He squeezes his hand as much as he can muster. “I don’t want you wasting all your time looking for something that can’t be done. Find a way to stop Solas.”

“Shit, Hawke, you look rough.”

Both men look over to the staircase and see Varric’s head once he’s made it to the top.

“Still more handsome than you,” Archer says.

“Keep dreaming.”

Varric walks over to the bed, and he’s followed by three people, all of whom are far taller than him.

“Hope you don’t mind that I brought a bit of company.”

Fletcher jumps off the bed and stares at them, wide eyed. “Lady take me…”

“Hello, Hawke!”

“Hey, sweet thing.”

“You really do look like shit.”

Archer smiles wider than he has in weeks as he looks at his friends. It’s been nearly seven years since he’s seen them all, but they’re mostly unchanged. Merrill’s hair is a bit longer, but her smile is just as bright as he remembers it. Isabela’s eyes may have a few crow’s feet around them, but her dress is still gravity-defyingly short. And Fenris may still have the strongest build of any elf Archer has ever seen, but his face seems to have softened over the years.

“I never expected you to come,” Archer says. He looks right at the two elves. “I didn’t even know if Varric could get word to you.”

“We’ve never been too hard to find,” Merrill says. “I never left Kirkwall for long.”

Varric pats Isabela and Fenris on the backs. “And these two have been joined at the hip just about since you left town. Since _she_ can’t keep away from The Hanged Man for too long, _he’s_ easy to find too.”

“You know I only come back for the pig oat mash. It’s certainly not for the company,” Isabela insists. “But aren’t we being rude? Who is this lovely, troubled soul?”

Fletcher’s jaw is still dropped in amazement. “I-I’m Fletcher Fóstrisen,” he manages. “I’m Archer’s partner.”

Isabela and Merrill both smile at the word. Fenris, having undoubtedly spotted the symbols on Fletcher’s hands, looks on more suspiciously.

“Well I’m Merri-“

“I know who you are,” Fletcher says, cutting her off. “I apologize, I’m just…before I met Varric and Archer, I’d read about you. It’s been months, and I’m still amazed that Archer is Hawke. Now I’m getting to meet you, and I’m overwhelmed. And I think a visit from old friends may be just what Archer needs to get on the mend.”

“You’re kidding yourself, Fletcher,” Archer says. “I’m ecstatic to see you all, honestly. But I’m dying. I want to say my ‘goodbyes’ to you, and I want you to do what you can to stop Solas. Please. It’s my dying wish.”

“We didn’t come here to give you any ‘goodbyes’, Hawke.” Fenris says. “We came here to give you what we know about Solas so we can figure this out together.”

Archer shakes his head and looks to Fletcher. “Kid, could you get this guy a bottle of wine and let us catch up?”

Fletcher frowns before passing glances to everyone else in the room. Fenris nods at him, so Fletcher does what he’s asked, fetching a dusty bottle of wine from off of a shelf opposite the bed.

“I’ll go find some glasses.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Fenris says.

Fletcher nods and then leaves them to reconnect.

~oOo~

After several hours of catching up, Varric, Merrill, Isabela, and Fenris head out of Archer’s room and down into the great hall. Fletcher is sitting anxiously on the throne, desperately awaiting his chance to get back to his lover’s side. As soon as they come out, Varric runs as fast as his short legs can carry him in order get to the medical ward. Shortly after, he and the healers come rushing past, and the healers run up to towards Archer’s quarters.

Confused and scared, Fletcher demands to know what was going on, and Isabela informs him that Archer had passed out and was unable to be roused.

“How the void could you let him get like that?” Varric says.

“Excuse me?” Fletcher asks, deeply hurt by the dwarf’s words. “Move, I have to go to him!”

“You’re not going anywhere!” Varric says, moving closer to him, blocking the doorway. “I don’t think he’s got a week left in him. I left him here thinking he’d be in good hands, and now he’s going to die. Get your hands off-“

Isabela is pulling Varric back, putting herself between him and Fletcher before an all-out fist fight takes place.

 “Do you not think I’ve been spending every second of the day, every ounce of strength I have trying to find something to fix him?” Fletcher asks, near yelling. “He needs me!”

“Fletcher,” Merrill says. “I don’t think there’s anything you can do here right now. You can just let the healers try to work.”

“And what the void am I supposed to do then? Just sit around?”

“Basically what you’ve been doing-“

Fletcher screams and pushes a wave of energy towards the dwarf, sending him flying back against the wall. Fenris steps forward, his lyrium tattoos lighting up, and he blocks the mage from doing anything else to him.

“What?!” Fletcher yells. “What else was I supposed to do? Was I supposed to just march into Tevinter, grab Solas by the ear, and make him come back here to fix him?”

Varric picks himself off the floor and dusts off his coat. “That’s one idea, but you didn’t appear to have the most obvious one.”

“Really? And what’s that?”

“Maybe we can stop tormenting the poor thing and just show him?” Isabela suggests.

“Show me what?”

“Merrill, why don’t you take him,” Fenris says. “I need to stay behind with Varric to discuss what we’ve found in Tevinter. And Isabela needs to stay behind as the signal.”

Fletcher looks over to the pirate and sees her nod her head in agreement, whatever they meant by ‘signal’.

“Alright then, let’s go,” Merrill says. “Grab your staff.”

“Where? I can’t just leave-“

Merrill looks at him sternly. “Grab your staff, Fletcher. If you want to try to save him, you’re the one who has to come.”

Fletcher is completely unsure of this, and he’s less than thrilled at the prospect of leaving Archer. But he knows that Varric is right; Archer’s time is running out. If he’s gone, there’s no point in stopping Solas as far as Fletcher is concerned. If he’s gone, Solas wins anyway.

Cautiously, Fletcher grabs his staff and follows Merrill who walks through the castle as though she knows it forward and backwards. She leads him out into the garden and into the room off the side of it which contains the eluvian.

After their journey to the Well of Sorrows, Morrigan had rendered this eluvian useless in an attempt to keep Corypheus at bay. But now, it looks as it did just before she closed it: bright and blue, swirling and beautiful.

“After me,” Merrill says as she approaches the mirror. With one hand forward, she pushes through as though entering into a wall of water.

He’s reluctant, but Fletcher follows.

Inside of the eluvian, they’re in a place Fletcher knows is called the Crossroads. Archer, while healing from his surgery, described this place to him. It was a dark and desolate land filled with hundreds if not thousands of eluvians. Some appeared to be bright and active, while most appeared broken beyond repair.

Fletcher follows the elven woman past dozens of eluvians until they make it to one that is thin and framed in intricate gold carvings of branches. At the top of the frame is a golden bust of a halla.

“I need to go first, but stay behind me,” Merrill warns. “Whatever you do, don’t attack.”

Fletcher frowns, unsure as to what they’re supposed to encounter on the other side of the eluvian. But, once again, he does as he’s told, and he follows closely behind Merrill and through the eluvian.

“Don’t worry, it’s only me!” Fletcher hears Merrill say as he comes out through the other side.

He’s in a place unknown to him. He’s in a small, dark room, and he can see Merrill’s silhouette standing in a doorway just ahead of him. Slowly, he follows behind her and looks out into a slightly larger room. It’s better lit, and a man stands before them, staff at the ready.

“Fletcher, meet Anders.”


	45. Chapter 45

This evening already has been a whirlwind of emotions for Fletcher. Between the sorrow and despair he’s felt about Archer’s rapid decline and the excitement experienced when meeting some of his heroes, Fletcher doesn’t know how to feel looking at the man before him. Anders is someone he admired but was also someone who hurt the man he loved. He’s also the person his partner has expressly forbidden him from contacting. And here he stands before him, both a bit taller and older than he imagined.

“I wasn’t expecting you to return tonight, Merrill,” Anders says.

“I know, I know. Things just progressed more quickly than we’d expected,” she says. “Tea, anyone?”

Fletcher looks back and forth between them, a bit perplexed by the situation. “I-how?”

“Fletcher, is it?” Anders asks. He sets his staff down, leaning it against a wall, and he takes a seat at a small table in the main room. He gestures over to an empty chair opposite him.

“Yes,” Fletcher says.

He watches Merrill put a pot of water to boil over a small stove before he takes a seat across the table from the other man. His hair is pulled back, much like Varric’s, and he has a shabby beard of sparse blond hair mixed among grey.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees something slink across the floor towards them. A thin, unkempt orange tabby cat with glassy eyes starts to rub against one of Anders’ black boots. It purrs loudly as Anders bends down to scratch its rump.

“Fletcher, I need you to know that I’ve come because I know that I owe it to Archer,” Anders says. “After everything he’s been through, I can’t sit by in the shadows any more if there’s something I can do to help him.”

Merrill starts to set out three cups at the table with ground tea leaves at the bottom of them, and Fletcher palms his nervously.

“You think you can actual help him?”

“I’m not sure,” Anders admits. “But I know that I’m the most capable healer that I’ve ever met. I don’t doubt that Archer asked you not to contact me. He’s a prideful man. But Varric made it so you didn’t have to. Archer can be mad at him and me, not at you.”

“I don’t know if he’ll even wake up,” Fletcher says. He looks down at his cup and sees his sullen reflection starting to form as Merrill pours hot water into it. “I’d be happy if he was mad at me just to hear his voice again.”

Merrill takes her seat at another chair at the table. “I have no doubt we’ll all hear from him again. Hawke is a fighter. None of us would be doing this if we didn’t believe he’d pull through.”

“Merrill?” Fletcher asks in sudden realization. “Are-are we in your house in Kirkwall?”

“Clever boy,” Anders laughs while he sips from his cup.

Merrill giggles. “Took you long enough to realize. But, yes. It’s my home. The one Hawke helped me get after leaving my clan.”

“And the eluvian,” Fletcher says. “Varric’s book says that you never fixed it.”

“Varric’s book was written before I was able to restore it fully. And obviously, it’s how we’ve managed to travel so far so quickly. And it’s also how we got Anders back into the city.”

“I guess you wouldn’t be welcomed back with open arms,” Fletcher says, looking at Anders.

“Not by everyone,” Anders says.

The three sit in silence for a while, finishing off their tea. It’s a surreal moment for Fletcher to be in this place that seemed like naught but a fairy tale for him just a few years ago. And yet, before him are two fellow mages that he looks up to, and they present an opportunity to bring his partner back from the brink of death.

“Should we go back?” Fletcher asks, finally breaking the silence. “Archer doesn’t have a lot of time left.”

“No, no, we have to wait for the signal,” Merrill insists. “Patience is a-ah!”

She’s cut off as a dagger flies through the air, it’s blade piercing through the wooden paneling on the wall just above Fletcher’s head. Fletcher jumps at the sight and rises from his seat to back away in case any other daggers appear out of nowhere.

“There’s the signal,” Merrill hums as she pops up from her seat. “Now, now, just leave your cups. I’ll deal with them later. Fletcher, grab that dagger and let’s go.”

Fletcher looks at Anders who looks nearly as confused as he is, but, if he’s learned anything in dealing with this group, it’s that he just needs to do as he’s told. He grabs the handle of the dagger and pries it out of the wall. After collecting his staff, he follows Merrill back into the other room containing the eluvian. He turns back to see if Anders is coming with them, and he sees him crouching down to pet the old cat.

“Goodbye, Mittens, my old friend,” Anders whispers to it.

Fletcher turns and walks through the eluvian. He’s closely followed by Anders.

“Come on, I don’t want to be in this place any longer than I need to be.”

As Fletcher steps through, he sees Isabela standing in front of them. She smirks at him as she takes her dagger out of his hand, and she sheaths it behind her back. The group walks away from the eluvian through the Crossroads, and they make their way back to the one leading them to Skyhold.

“Anders, put your hood up,” Isabela says, peering out the door into the gardens. “Everyone important should be in the meeting room. They think I’m upstairs keeping watch with Hawke, but we’ll need to hurry before they come out.”

“I don’t think people would be that angry about Anders coming here if it’s to save Archer,” Fletcher insists, following closely behind Isabela who is making sure the coast is clear every step of the way.

“I’m still technically a wanted man across Thedas,” Anders whispers. “Don’t put it past a desperate person to see me and turn me in for coin.”

Once the group makes it to the doorway outside of Archer’s room, Isabela decides to stand guard outside while Merrill makes her way to find Fenris and Varric, who are in a meeting in the War Table room. This leaves Fletcher to lead Anders up the stairs and into the bedroom.

“Oh love,” Fletcher mutters under his breath as he sees Archer lying still on their shared bed. As night has fallen, the room is dim with the light of only a few dozen candles. He walks over to him and sits on the bed beside him, taking his hand into his own.

Anders slowly walks over to the bed to get a better look at Archer. Fletcher looks over at him and sees his face grow pale.

“I’ve never seen him so fragile,” Anders admits, voice cracking. “Even when he was emotionally at his worst, he was always big, strong Hawke.”

“Please,” Fletcher pleads. “Please fix him.”

Anders moves around the other side of the bed to look at the black marks which have taken over more than a quarter of Archer’s body. He holds out his right hand, his fingertips mere centimeters from Archer. Bright blue cracks start to form on his skin, and his eyes glow a brilliant blue. Green light forms at his fingertips, and it moves towards the dark tendrils scarring Archer’s body. But as soon as it makes contact with the marked skin, it bounces back and dissipates into nothingness.

“This is worse than I thought.”

The words at first aren’t formed by any voice Fletcher recognizes. It’s deep and haunting before fading down into the voice he’s heard from Anders. He watches as his eyes turn back to normal and the cracks of light disappear. He knows that he’s seen Justice, and the awe of the moment is marred only by Anders’ discouraging words.

“What do you mean? You barely looked at him, how can you even know?”

“I mean that there’s no way I can fix this.” Anders turns away, pacing around the room. “This is a kind of magic I’ve never felt before. It’s deep and old – not surprising given the source…”

“You have to fix him!” Fletcher says, jumping up from the bed. He walks over to him and looks up at him sternly. “You said it, Anders. After everything he’s been through – after everything _you’ve_ put him through – you have to fix him!”

Anders glares at him. “Don’t pretend that you’re not happy about what I ‘put’ him through. If I hadn’t left him, you wouldn’t have him at all.”

“So, what, you’re having regrets about leaving him?”

“No!” Anders shouts. His skin crackles with blue again, but he shakes himself of it, controlling the spirit inside of him. “No, I don’t regret it. I saved him by leaving him. It was the single kindest thing I could have done for him, and I will _never_ regret that.

“But don’t you dare pretend to know how this has made me feel. I want nothing more than to save him again, and I will do everything I can to see that through.”

Fletcher steps back, angry with himself for getting so heated with a man he barely knows. “But you said you can’t fix this.”

“I can’t,” Anders affirms. “This magic is ancient and deep. It’s not just this black mark seeping into his skin; it’s replacing something that was taken from him.”

“I don’t understand.”

Anders furrows his brow and licks his bottom lip. “Varric told me very little when I got to Kirkwall, so please, correct me if I’m missing some detail. He told me that the anchor on Archer’s hand formed when he took hold of an ancient elven orb belonging to this elf Solas – Fen’Harel. It got worse, got painful. And, eventually, Solas ripped the anchor out of him to try to buy him some time.”

“Yes,” Fletcher says. “Archer doesn’t remember everything about what happened then, but his arm was almost ripped off as well, which is why it was amputated after he came back. He thought that he would have a lot more time than this though. He believed it would be years before it took him; long enough to find a way to stop Solas.”

“It’s one thing to tear away someone’s arm, but to physically pull magic from a body does more than just physical damage to the victim,” Anders says. “Solas ripped out part of Archer’s spirit. That’s why it’s killing him so quickly.”

Fletcher throws his hands up in frustration. “So now we’re back to where we started? We need to find Solas and get Archer’s spirit back.”

“Yes,” Anders says, matter-of-factly. “We need to find him and convince him to give him Archer’s spirit back. We simply need some sort of bargaining chip.”

Both men are silent while contemplating what can possibly be done. And then, suddenly, it hits Fletcher.

“I know exactly what to do.”


	46. Chapter 46

Anders and Fletcher discuss Fletcher’s plan, and (after significant argument) come to an agreement that it’s the only shot they’ll have. But executing the plan fully will only work if they can both find Solas and have time with him alone.

Luckily enough, the plan laid out several months ago to infiltrate Solas’ presumed headquarters has met with some success. After Archer contacted Varric, he sent messages out to Merrill and Fenris, who both spent several weeks living among the elves in the Silent Plains. Though there were no reports of Solas actually being present, Fenris was able to recover a number of documents which Merrill was able to translate.

According to what the elves had found, Solas’ preparations to restore the world to his desired state had him travelling to all of the major temples of the other old elven gods. What he was doing there was not revealed in the documents, but it did narrow down places to look. All of the temples were listed out by the symbols of the gods. All but two symbols were crossed out – a sun and an owl.

Because Anders and Fletcher need to go alone, Fletcher worked with Varric to put the underground Inquisitions plans on hold. They told Cassandra and Josephine that they needed more time to prepare and send out their own scouts to see if Solas is really at either remaining temple before all of their remaining forces are sent to attack.

Merrill and Fenris are sent out, travelling to the temple symbolized by the owl – the temple of Falon’Din in the Emerald Graves. Fletcher excuses himself from the castle in search of other treatments for Archer and secretly leaves with Anders to the temple symbolized by the sun – the temple of Elgar’nan near Halamshiral.

When Anders and Fletcher make it to the temple, they find that it’s not unlike most other temples to the old elven gods. It’s in absolute ruin – the former glory of the stone structures completely crumbling and being consumed by the lush native ferns and ivy found scattered upon the hilltops in this region of Orlais. It is quiet except for the call of songbirds and the hushed whispers in an ancient tongue in the distance.

The two men creep carefully around the outer perimeter of the temple. For one of the most – if not the most – significant gods in the elven pantheon, it surprises to them how small the temple really is. It takes them no time at all to reach the outskirts of the temple’s middle ground. They can easily peer into cracks between the ancient walls.

Inside, they see a few dozen elven archers standing watch. And in the center of the room, they see Solas sitting with his eyes closed and legs crossed in front of a statue.

“Is he meditating?” Fletcher asks quietly.

Anders frowns. “I can’t imagine why he would be. He’s a god, well, not really from what Varric said. Just a really powerful ancient mage. Maybe he’s trying to move past the Veil, talk to-“ He stops abruptly.

“What?”

“He’s asleep,” Anders says.

“He is a dreamer,” Fletcher says. “He’s said as much to us when he was still working with us.”

Anders nearly smiles. “It’s such a rare talent, one I’ve always coveted. Imagine what it would be like to just enter the Fade at will? To be able to shape it. I could have helped so many mages during their Harrowings…”

“Maybe we’ll have a shot at talking to him alone if we can kill off these elves before he wakes up,” Fletcher suggests.

“No,” Anders says. “There’s only reason to spill blood when it’s the last resort. We just have to go speak with him in the Fade.”

Fletcher frowns. “Just because we enter the Fade doesn’t mean we’ll see him. And even if we find him and talk to him, what is the likelihood that we’ll all remember our conversations when we wake?”

“He’ll see us though, if he’s a dreamer. He’ll see every mage, spirit, and demon who has ever walked the Fade here, us included. As for remembering, it is possible. It’s what happened for us back in Kirkwall.

“We may not arrive together when we enter though, so we’ll need to find each other.” Anders pulls two vials of lyrium out of his coat pocket. “Here.”

Fletcher shakes his head and smiles. “If you want to end up in there together, at least let me do it.” He pulls out his small silver dagger and cuts his left palm. Then he manipulates the blood and tears a small hole in the Veil.

Archer scowls. “Seriously? Seriously. I leave Archer alone and he ends up with a _blood mage_? Andraste’s tits, I should have known…”

“Let me handle this, Anders,” Fletcher insists.

Reluctantly, Anders sits on the ground with a huff while Fletcher starts to manipulate his blood and chant out an incantation. It isn’t long before both men sleep.

 “See, easy enough,” Fletcher boasts, his voice echoing through the thickened air of the Fade. “You thought it’d be – fuck!”

Fletcher turns around and sees Anders’ body, but clearly, Anders is not the one who stands before him. The eyes and the blue crackled skin are unmistakably Justice.

“I have walked in the Fade for Anders since our merger years ago,” Justice says. “I keep the horrors the Fade produces away from him while it gives me the opportunity to walk alone where I truly belong.”

“Why doesn’t Anders let you leave?” Fletcher asks.

Before Justice can answer, Solas is before them.

“I will admit that in all of my visions of how Archer tries to stop me, having you visit me in the Fade was not among them, Fletcher.” Solas says. “But I always knew you were smarter than the rest of the humans. Most think the Avvar barbarians, but only true talent can interact with sprits the way your people do.”

“We’ve come to bargain with you,” Fletcher says.

Solas looks from Fletcher to Justice, looking the latter up and down. “And who are ‘we’?”

“You’re the leader of an organization full of agents collecting intel, Solas. Surely you’ve heard of the mage Anders who took into him a spirit of Justice.”

“Of course,” the elf says simply. “Though this is not Anders. This is the spirit.”

“I have emerged only to find you, Fen’Harel,” Justice says. “The words Anders wishes to speak to you are not my own. He requests an audience outside of the Fade.”

Solas narrows his eyes. “What could a human mage wish to say to me? Bargain with me?”

“Archer is dying, Solas,” Fletcher says. “We need to save him, and we have an offering. Please, just speak with Anders outside of the Fade. It isn’t a trap.”

“I know it’s not a trap. I can _feel_ him dying, and I know your love for him is too great to risk this,” Solas says. “I will speak with your Anders, but I cannot guarantee you’ll get what you want.”

Instantly, Solas disappears, but a loud snap cracks through the air. Fletcher finds himself on the ground, back in the temple. Groaning, he pushes himself up to his feet, and he looks over at Anders. Justice is nowhere to be seen.

Fletcher looks between the cracks in the ruined wall, and he sees Solas, now awake, ordering the other elves out of the temple entirely. They wait until the room is completely clear before they slip through a downed section of wall into the center room.

“Before you waste your words on me, let me say this,” Solas says as they enter the room. “Even if I restore the piece of Archer that was taken from him, he’s still going to die; you’re all going to die. It is an unfortunate side effect of what has to be. I know I cannot explain it to you in simple enough terms, though you, Anders, may understand more than most. You and I are alike.”

“How do you mean?” Anders asks.

“We both seek justice for our people, do we not?” Solas looks up at the sky above through the fallen ceiling and takes in a deep, slow breath. “This is the temple of Elgar’nan, as I’m sure you know. He was a false god, like the other Evanuris, and he enslaved my people. When I created the Veil and trapped him and the others, I destroyed the world my people knew – which ended in them being outcasts, less-thans, and slaves, but to your people. Magic left most of them, leaving them worse off than they ever were before.

“I seek to restore what we once had, just as you sought to end the oppression to mages. It took a radical move to see it through, one that most could not possibly understand. But in the end, the world was better for it, no matter the cost.”

Anders clenches his fist. “I didn’t destroy every living person to achieve my goals! There were sacrifices, yes. But how many lives did I save in doing it? How many children were kept from being ripped away from their mothers? How many terrified teenagers were kept from being raped by Templars? How many were kept from the torments of Tranquility? You and I are not the same, Solas. We are not even remotely similar.”

“For someone trying to reason with me, you dare to try to insult me.”

“Look,” Fletcher says, physically putting himself between the two other men. “I think it’s safe to say that neither Anders nor I agree with your actions. But at the very least, we both believe in Archer. And we believe that he can show you another way better than any of us possibly could. But in order to do that, he has to live, and you’re the only person alive who has the power to restore his spirit.”

“As much as I would love to find another way, I do not see how it can be done,” Solas says. “I know I have caused the two of you and Archer a great deal of hurt, but simply righting that wrong leads to the same outcome.”

Fletcher shakes his head. “What if we can offer something that can help you better achieve your goal if Archer can’t convince you otherwise?”

Solas stares at him questioningly. “You’re so sure that he can change my mind that you would risk this?”

“Yes. Well, Anders would risk it,” Fletcher says. “As you know, I drank from the Well of Sorrows and bound my soul to Mythal. In exchange for her help, she owns me. I know that, at any time, she could use me for her bidding. Anders is willing to do the same for you.”

Solas looks over at Anders who stares back, unfaltering. “I need not another human soul bound to me.”

“Another?” Anders asks.

“I’ll ask you something, Fletcher,” Solas says. “Since Corypheus was destroyed, have you heard the whispers…heard or felt any sign from Mythal?”

Fletcher’s eyes dart over to Anders and back at the elf. “No…”

“That is because she is dead,” Solas states. “And, in her death, her essence transferred to my body. As a side effect, your soul is now bound to me.”

Fletcher’s jaw drops, utterly shocked at the revelation.

“You needn’t worry,” Solas reassures him. “Sure, I could use you. But why? You’re a skilled blood mage, but you aren’t capable of anything extraordinary that I’m not capable of myself.”

“But you can use me,” Anders says. “You know what I’ve done and what I can do.”

Solas shakes his head. “Was it really you or that spirit inside of you? I could never use you when you don’t even belong to yourself. Even so, you’re tainted as a Warden.”

“Then take him,” Anders says, near yelling. “I’ll purge him from myself right now, and you can use him. He’s a spirit of Justice, after all, and justice is what you seek.”


	47. Chapter 47

Solas is silent, contemplating the prospect of taking a spirit of Justice into himself.

“I consider spirits to be friends. I would not take one into myself unwillingly, as it seems nothing more than slavery,” he says.

“Justice and I agreed to our merger as friends,” Anders insists. “Together we’ve accomplished what we set out to do. It’s better for him to continue on his path of righteousness with you. And, if Archer can persuade you, he’ll persuade Justice as well. You can then part ways or do whatever you wish.”

Fletcher looks at Solas, desperation in his eyes. “Please, Solas. Don’t you owe him that much?”

“I didn’t know that I would be taking on a part of Archer’s own spirit when I removed the anchor from him,” Solas admits. “I really thought I would be giving him more time. In all honesty, I do not know if the piece of him I took can be removed from me and granted back to him. But if there’s any way to do it, I would imagine it could be done by merging with another spirit.

“I assume you know what must be done to rid yourself of Justice,” Solas says to Anders.

He nods. “Let’s go back to the Fade.”

Solas looks to Fletcher “Would you like to do the honors, blood mage?”

“No,” Anders says. “If I’m to live the fate set out for me, would you please take us there? I’ve always wanted to enter the Fade through the skills of a dreamer.”

Fletcher looks at him questioningly but says nothing.

“I suppose,” Solas says. “Stand still.”

Fletcher watches as Solas takes a step back and then sits with his legs crossed on the floor. Solas closes his eyes, and, instantly, Anders and Fletcher fall asleep.

As they rouse, Fletcher feels the air around him becoming thicker. As his eyes flutter open, he sees the familiar greenish hue to the world around him. The crumbling walls around them form into an impressive temple, the Fade showing them its former glory.

Solas stands and he looks at Fletcher and then to Justice. “Spirit of Justice, are you willing to part from your mortal host?”

“I am,” Justice says.

“Are you willing to then merge yourself with me?”

“I aim only to right the wrongs of this world,” he says. “If it means taking up host in yourself, I am willing.”

“And you’re willing to leave your former host behind, knowing that it will result in his death?”

Justice doesn’t hesitate to answer. “One who dies in the Fade becomes Tranquil. Anders understands this outcome, as do I. We find that this is the appropriate course of action to right the hurt inflicted upon Archer Hawke and to assist in your plan to bring justice to your people.”

Fletcher shakes his head. “No, no…that’s not how this was supposed to go. I’ve taken spirits into myself before, and I didn’t need to die in the Fade to get them out!”

“You have never had a spirit inside of you for decades,” Solas says. “This is the only finite way to ensure that Justice emerges intact.”

“Anders wouldn’t agree to become Tranquil-“

“Do not pretend you understand what Anders wants,” Justice interjects. “These are the terms he and I agreed upon, and you will not stop what has already begun.”

Solas looks at Fletcher, true solace in his eyes. “It’s the only hope you have of getting Archer back.”

Fletcher’s breath is shaky with fear, anger, and confusion. When he’d asked Anders to offer himself to Solas, he never imagined that he would end up offering Justice instead or ending up Tranquil. But in his own selfish need for his partner back, he steps aside and allows them to carry on.

“Come forth, friend, spirit of Justice,” Solas whispers.

He pulls a blade from his side and stabs Justice in the chest. There’s an ear-piercing roar that echoes off the walls as a blue light emerges from the blade’s entry site. The color from his eyes and the cracks on his skin flood together, out of his chest, and an ethereal silhouette of a spirit in full plate armor floats in front of Solas. The body, now clearly that of Anders, drops to the floor, completely motionless.

“Bind your spirit to me,” Solas says, “and together we shall benefit. The _world_ shall benefit.”

Justice turns to look at Fletcher briefly before floating forward, entering Solas’ body.

The elf rises up, eyes glowing and skin crackling with blue. Black smoke forms around his body, and the Fade around him starts to shake and rumble. The blue light shining within him grows brighter and brighter until Fletcher has to avert his gaze, lest he go blind.

Fletcher can sense the light dissipating as the world beyond his eyelids grows dark again. Wearily, he opens his eyes, and he finds himself not in the Fade, but back in the ruined temple of Elgar’nan. Quickly, he jumps to his feet as he sees Solas and Anders seemingly lifeless next to him.

“Anders!” he yells. He rushes to him and starts to shake him. “Anders wake up.”

Anders groans and sits up slowly, looking around him. “Maker’s balls…”

Fletcher furrows his brows. _That doesn’t sound like something a Tranquil would say…_

“Is Solas still alive?” Anders asks, rising to his feet.

“I don’t-are you?” Fletcher asks, completely confused.

Anders doesn’t answer him, and he walks over to Solas’ still body. He bends down to feel for a pulse, and he shakes his head. “That’s not exactly how I expected for that to go. Andraste guide him. No, that seems rather crass given the situation. I’m not sure what to say.”

Fletcher walks over to him and peers down. “Anders, what in the bloody Void happened? Why is he dead? How aren’t you Tranquil?”

“Didn’t you say you’d read Varric’s book?” Anders asks. “You don’t turn Tranquil when you die in someone else’s dream; you just go back to the real world and wake up. That’s why I asked him to take us into his own.

“I also thought that the merger between Justice and Solas would go poorly, just not _this_ poorly.”

“Why?”

“Because Justice hasn’t been, well… _Justice_ since shortly after we merged,” Anders explained. “My anger corrupted him into something closer to Vengeance. Since vengeance isn’t what Solas was after, I felt that his body might try to reject him and ultimately kill him in the Fade.”

Fletcher frowns. “So, you meant to turn Solas Tranquil?”

“I know it’s cruel, but better that than to have every living person in Thedas die, right?” Anders asks rhetorically. “Besides, Tranquility can be reversed. That’s how the war broke out between the mages and Templars. I usually get the blame for that, but I digress.

“I thought that his death in the Fade would be enough to disrupt the hold he had on Archer’s own spirit, too. But it seems that it didn’t just kill him there. For that, I am sorry.”

“And what of Justice…or Vengeance?”

Anders shakes his head. “I’m not sure. I hope for his sake he’s safe in the Fade or at least at peace somewhere. Perhaps it’s fitting for him to leave me in this place. Elgar’nan is, after all, the elven god of Vengeance.”

“Are you alright?” Fletcher asks.

“No,” Anders says bluntly. “I feel rather empty.”

~oOo~

Anders and Fletcher make haste back to Skyhold after hiding Solas’ body deep within the temple. Fletcher knows that he’ll eventually have to reveal to Cassandra and everyone else in the underground Inquisition what happened that day as they’ll need to make preparations to fight off or convert any remaining agents of Fen’Harel. But the most important thing now is returning to see what state Archer is left in. Without a living Solas, it is still unknown if Archer’s spirit has been restored, or if it can be restored at all.

They return in the dead of night, and Anders uses the darkness to cover himself as he sneaks into the castle with Fletcher. Together, they rush through the upper battlements, finding the back entrance to Archer’s room.

“How is he?” Fletcher asks, breathlessly as he rushes up the stairs.

Varric is sitting at the end of the bed, a book open on his lap. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

Fletcher’s eyes grow wide, and he runs to the bed, nearly knocking Varric out of the way as he tries to scurry off of it to make room.

“Hello, kid,” Archer says to him, smiling weakly.

“Archer, you’re awake…alive!” Fletcher pulls the sheets down off of him to look at his skin. The black tendrils that once marked the entire left half of his upper body are completely gone. All that remains are thin white scars in their place.

Archer sits up and pulls him into a hug, one stronger than he’s been able to muster in months.

“I woke up a few hours ago,” Archer says. “I asked for you, but Varric said you left to try to fix me. I’m not sure what you did, but I think it worked.”

Fletcher shakes his head in disbelief, but there’s a smile so wide on his face that his cheeks start to hurt. “It wasn’t just me, love. Please don’t be mad.”

“That’s my cue to exit,” Varric says, closing his book and heading towards the stairs.

Archer looks at Fletcher questioningly before his attention is turned as he sees a man appear at the top of the stairs.

“Hello, Archer.”


	48. Chapter 48

Archer stares at Anders for two solid minutes before looking back at Fletcher. He simply shakes his head at him.

“Archer, Anders risked his life to save you. Talk to him.” Fletcher bends down to kiss his forehead. “I’ll be outside, and I’ll come back when you’re done.”

Fletcher gets up and walks past Anders, giving him an encouraging smile before exiting the room.

“May I sit with you?” Anders asks.

Archer looks over at the desk. “There’s a chair you can bring over.”

“Of course,” Anders walks over to it and picks up the chair, but he stops when he sees something silver laid out on a short bookcase. “You still have that sword I commissioned for you.”

“It’s a good sword,” Archer says simply. He watches Anders cross the room with the chair, and he looks right at him when he sits down, less than a meter away from him. “Miguel modified it for me when I lost my arm. Made it lighter, more manageable.”

“It must really be a fantastic sword if you went the modification route rather than just getting a lighter one.”

“Miguel made it, so it’s the best.”

“Or you’re still the sentimental person you’ve always been,” Anders suggests.

Archer frowns. “What do you want from me, Anders? Do you want me to say ‘thank you’? Because _thank you._ I really do appreciate whatever you had to do in order to save me.”

“You’re welcome,” Anders says softly. “But I don’t want anything from you.”

Archer stares at him, unsure of what to say. Since the day of the Conclave, he had resigned himself to never seeing Anders again. Over the following months he made peace with it. He managed to grow stronger, move on, and find love again.

Having the other man in front of him brings back a wave of emotions he never wanted to feel again – the anger, the sadness, the confusion – and he’s not sure how to handle it.

“You didn’t just heal me, did you?” Archer finally manages. “If you did, you would have been here when I woke up.”

Anders looks down at his hands which sit in his lap. “I couldn’t heal you.”

“Then what did you do, Anders?”

Anders looks up at him, sadness in his eyes. “I remember the last time you asked me that.” He laughs weakly under his breath. “I purged myself of Justice and offered him to Solas. He accepted, and it ultimately killed him. Whatever happened, though, it fixed you.”

“You what?” Archer sits up and groans. His muscles are so weak and atrophied that it’s hard to move so suddenly. “Why would you-“

“Because I owed it to you,” Anders says, cutting him off. “Justice and I have done what we set out to do, and the world is better for it. You know this just as well as I do. I would do it all a million times over, but the one thing I’ve always regretted was hurting you by leaving the way I did.”

Archer shakes his head.

“You didn’t deserve the pain that came from me,” Anders insists.

“You left me!” Archer yells. “After every bloody thing I did to love you, you fucking left me.”

“That is not something I regret,” Anders says firmly.

“But I did everything I could, Anders! I gave you my everything, opened my home to you. I supported you and defended you! I-I would have fucking blown up the Chantry with you if you’d just told me! I wanted to spend forever with you, no matter what that meant. I was supposed to be by your side to the bitter end, Anders. I promised you I’d be there even when you heard your Calling.”

Tears start to well up in Archer’s eyes as all the hurt and pain he’d felt rushes through him.

Anders moves from the chair to the edge of the bed, and he pulls Archer against his chest, hugging him close.

“Why?” Archer asks, sobbing into Anders’ shoulder. “Why wasn’t I enough?”

 “You were always enough, love,” he says shakily as he rocks him. “You were the most important thing in my life. But some things mattered more than my life. It wasn’t fair to you, none of it was. The only way I could save you was to leave you.”

“I didn’t want saving…I didn’t want it…I didn’t.”

Archer can’t speak any more and he simply shakes and cries and Anders lets him until all the tears he can possibly muster run dry.

“I know that, in the end, you understood that you’re better off than you would be if we were still together,” Anders says once Archer has eventually laid back against his mattress. “But I don’t want you to think that I don’t wish it could have been different. I wanted there to be a world where I didn’t have to destroy the Chantry. A world where you and I could have been happy together and raised dogs and kittens and all the little orphan children you always begged me for.

“That world didn’t exist though. And still, at least I’ve managed to get everything I really wanted.”

“Lucky you,” Archer scoffs.

“I got a world in which mages are free – still fighting, but free – and I got a world where you’re alive, well, and with someone who can love you the way you love them. A blood mage though, really?”

Archer shrugs. “He’s a good blood mage.”

“He is a nice boy,” Anders says.

“He’s only a boy to you because you’re such an old man now,” Archer says, managing to laugh. “I barely recognized you. Still haven’t lost the feathered pauldron look though.”

“Time is funny, isn’t it?” Anders says with a smile. “Though I think you’ve managed to change the most. You’re skin and bones, and your hair is long. And I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you looked better with the face tattoo.”

Archer traces his index finger over his face where his tattoo used to be. He does it because he doesn’t know what else to say. Doesn’t know what else to do or feel. There was a point in his life where he thought he hated Anders for leaving him, but as he looks at him now, he has nothing but love and admiration for him. No man should have ever endured the struggles Anders has, and in the end, he sacrificed his own happiness to allow Archer to have his.

“What now?” Archer asks.

“Now I think I leave you to rest,” Anders says, getting off of the edge of the bed. “And I think you need to spend some time with Fletcher.”

“I mean what…between us.”

Anders stares at him. “Maybe you keep your promise to me.”

Archer nods. “Thank you, Anders. For everything.”

“No, Archie. Thank you.”

~oOo~

 

Ten Years Later

 

The sun hasn’t quite risen in the City of Chains, but it wouldn’t necessarily be so obvious even if it had. Kirkwall was built in such an unusual way that the only place that was really every bright was in Hightown during the sun’s peak hours. There was merely a glimmer of light on the cobblestone road illuminated by the lanterns flanking the maze of buildings lining the streets.

Archer and Fletcher walk hand in and down the steps into Lowtown. Both of them unconsciously – possibly instinctually – cough as they pass through the musty air that remains polluted despite Viscount Varric’s valiant efforts at beautification. It seems that the only thing that could help this drab place out is to start over entirely, but no one wanted another impromptu demolition.

They wind their way through the street bazaar and down to the docks where a small sliver of a sun can just barely be seen kissing the top of the water on the horizon. Fletcher tries to stop by the Champion statue, rusted over time by the salty sea air, but Archer pulls him along, not giving him the opportunity to gawk at it today. After all, they have somewhere to be.

Finally, they arrive at a grate in the ground. They do their best to maneuver through it without anyone falling or getting their boots too messy as they descend into Kirkwall’s underground tunnels referred to affectionately as Darktown.

“Did we really need to go the back way?” Fletcher asked, side stepping to avoid a pile of something suspicious.

“Yes,” Archer says, failing to elaborate. He pauses for a mere moment to look at the man he loves, and he smiles slightly.

So much has happened over the last decade. The remaining underground Inquisition was never able to find Solas’ body at the temple, and Fen’harel’s agents all but vanished. Archer grew stronger by the day and invested his assets to amass a fortune. And Fletcher, who was starting to get his first few gray hairs, had started to chronicle Avvar culture and history. But, today, he follows Archer blindly. Reluctantly.

They go down a few steps, take a left, then a right, down a few more steps, walk straight, and make one final hard left until they reach a wooden door.

Archer knocks on it three times in rapid succession followed by two more spaced out knocks.

The door in front of them opens, and a dwarf stares up at him before stepping back and letting him in. Archer ducks low to avoid the door frame, and he waits for Fletcher to follow him inside.

“Do you know what this is?” Archer asks. He reaches above his head and pulls a little boy off of his shoulders and gently sets him on the ground.

The blond-haired boy stares up, his bright blue eyes wide with wonder.

Archer crouches on his knee next to him and points up at the hunk of marble in front of them. There are several dwarves working on it with chisels and hammers, and it’s taking the form of a human mage with feathered pauldrons.

“These dwarves are making a statue of the bravest man I’ve ever known,” Archer says. “He saved the world, and he saved me. And I’m going to go help him now.”

The little boy looks over at Archer. “You’re coming back though, yeah?”

“Of course, I am,” Archer says, smiling at him. “But it may be a few weeks before I get back, so I’m going to need you to be brave, too. You’ll take care of your Da and the babies, won’t you Anders?”

Anders smiles wide and nods. “I can be brave for you, Papa.”

Archer kisses his forehead and then pokes his button nose with the tip of the index finger on his prosthetic limb before standing up.

“You promised him you’d see him to his Calling, but you just promised that boy you’re coming back,” Fletcher reminds him.

“I know,” Archer says, pulling him into a deep hug. “I’ll be back before they finish the statue and put it up where the Gallows used to be. Not going to tell him about this though. He’d really hate it.”

He kisses Fletcher deeply, and waves to the little one who is too busy being mesmerized by the statue to notice. As he walks out of Anders’ former clinic, he takes a shaky breath. He’s not ready to see his old friend die, but he will not let him die alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to thank everyone so much for reading. I really never expected anyone but my two friends to read this, and I've been totally overwhelmed by the response of such an unconventional fanfiction. This was insanely hard to write as it's so far from my canon, but it's my favorite thing I've ever gotten to write. Thank you for sharing this experience for me. And especially thanks to those who took the time to kudos or comment.


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